


The Prince and The Pilot

by stigmata4



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gargareans, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, DC Mythos, Daryl Dixon Has a Large Cock, King Negamemnon, M/M, Major Daryl Dixon, Mild Smut, Original Character(s), Paul "Jesus" Rovia Has a Large Cock, Prince Paul, Prince Pol/"The Wonder", Soldiers, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-04-30 08:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14492778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stigmata4/pseuds/stigmata4
Summary: Major Daryl Dixon, soldier and spy, just splashed down after an aerial dog fight. When he wakes up to see the stunning prince who rescued him, he realizes that his world just got bigger, on a completely Olympic scale.





	1. Heroes Past and Present

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea I could NOT get out of my head, so I had to try it out. Been getting into the superhero vibe with Avengers and Justice League lately. That said, please assume comic book explanations and physics! Hope you are a little entertained. Happy reading!
> 
> Disclaimer: This work is meant purely for entertainment and experiential purposes only. No infringement is intended. TWD and its characters belong to AMC/Skybound Ent. WW is the work of William Moulton Marston and is owned by DC Comics.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Daryl Dixon, soldier and spy, just splashed down after an aerial dog fight. When he wakes up to see the stunning prince who rescued him, he realizes that his world just got bigger, on a completely Olympic scale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an idea I could NOT get out of my head, so I had to try it out. Been getting into the superhero vibe with Avengers and Justice League lately. That said, please assume comic book explanations and physics! Hope you are a little entertained. Happy reading!  
> Disclaimer: This work is meant purely for entertainment and experiential purposes only. No infringement is intended. TWD and its characters belong to AMC/Skybound Ent. WW is the work of William Moulton Marston and is owned by DC Comics.

A heavy stream of bullets ripped through the starboard wing and the fuselage just behind him. The stick was sluggish, and he knew he was losing fuel and hydraulic controls aboard the P-51 Mustang fighter plane. The German BF-109s were right on top of him with little room to spare as he banked hard to put the rising sun into his pursuers’ line of vision and obscure his plane as he lowered into the reflection on the choppy waters of the Atlantic below. He search furiously for a solution. 

Fortune smiled when he caught it due south of his flight path: a low cloud formed a thick, gray fog bank ahead, not yet burned away by the fury of a tropical sunrise. It was a better place to lose them, and they were closing, with no way to tell when the might reacquire him as a target. It had taken nearly everything he and the sturdy plane had just to take out four of the other planes in the squadron. Calling up every ounce of his skill and training, he jettisoned one of his spare fuel tanks and poured on the speed, the metal of the plane popping and groaning under the strain of his will. 

He had just breached the edge of the fog when more bullets rained down. He could hear the pops of their contact and a screaming rip as more metal sheared against the onrush of the wind. Cold air was circling in behind his seat and the damp was clawing at his calves. He tried to count, to maintain his speed. 

He thought he’d been hit by lightning when a shockwave washed across the fighter, and the fog broke into the clear. He blinked and thanked his lucky stars that he was still alive, still flying, and before him was a small island chain with a long beach. He started counting and pushed the plane to its limit. The stick shuddered as he forced a high yo-yo attack. The plane’s dials and instruments whirled, unusable in the current position. He dropped the last fuel tank and watched it fall away. Squinting, he saw his targets baring back down on his former position. Lining his sights on the fuel tank, he pulled the trigger and unloaded. 

The tank exploded in a ball of hellish fury. The concussive force, shrapnel, and fire ignited the planes of his opponents, and explosions engulfed both. The handsome pilot he breathed a sigh of relief, and a rebel yell from his home in the mountains of North Georgia spilled from his lungs. He breathed heavy as he circled around lower and started to slow, looking for a good beach on which to land the crippled bird.

That was when the engine sputtered and stalled out completely. He tried to glide, but the stick and ailerons were frozen. It was now life or death to keep the nose of the plane up as he coasted down into the ocean surface. He slammed forward as the plane up-ended and overturned. He was bleeding and upside-down. There was water filling the cockpit. The hatch release was stuck. The plane sunk lower. He was going to drown.

Something moved outside the cockpit. Seal? Dolphin? Shark?

_A face?_

The hatch buckled and pulled away. He felt hands grab hold of the seat straps and snap them in half, and a mouth, warm and inviting, touched his lips against his own, pushing them open and breathing sweet air into his lungs. Salt water stung his eyes, and for a second, he thought he’d glimpsed an angel. 

\----

When he’d left Acteon and Crixius on the training field, the prince had been thoroughly disheartened. His training had never before resulted in severe harm to another, and hurting his uncle had truly shaken him. He’d fought things that were terrifying. The Beings were part of their world, creatures to be respected, and when necessary, confronted and defeated. The Infernal Door required vigil and had nearly been breached by the forces of several dark beings and their minions in centuries past. Now, something was stirring out in the New Lands; The Beings of the islands were emboldened, and skirmishes had happened. He’d had no choice but to defy his father’s wishes, to test his battle skills against General Symonicus; and now, the Guardian General, his uncle, the Grand Marshall of the Gargarean forces, lay under a healer’s care.

He stood on the precipice by the cliff side waterfall overlooking the reef and stared into the Great Barrier when the planes breeched it. Two were destroyed, and one crashed into the deep lagoon, just inside the reef. Without reservation, the prince dove from the cliff face to pierce the crystal blue water like an arrow from Apollo himself. He moved through the water as quickly as possible. If there was a man from the New Lands, he would not have the blessings of Thessalios upon him. He may even be dead already. 

The prince lay the pilot carefully upon the wet sand just out of the wash of the sea foam. He removed the glass eye armor and leather cap. It hadn’t occurred to him until after he had gotten the beautiful warrior back to shore that he’d actually broken the metal clasps that held the canopy on the plane, ripped the tight cloth straps that held him as if they were made of papyrus, and outswam the lagoon dolphins to get the pilot back to land. He’d known he was highly favored by the gods, but of late, his prowess was surpassing even that of his magnificent earthly father. He also noted that the men of the New Lands wore a lot of clothing. The man’s chest shuddered at his touch over the heart. He had several tattoos that made no sense. Perhaps some were the names of loved ones or tribal recognition symbols.

The newlander was beyond handsome with eyes the color of the deepest blue ocean and silky tresses of chestnut and coppery fire. The prince pulled the pilot’s head up to rest it upon his thigh, stroking the man’s handsome face.

The beautiful man opened his storm blue eyes. When he looked up the azure blue of the cloudless sky framed the most beautiful face Major Daryl Dixon, US Army Air Forces, had ever seen. Eyes of blue, icy mist stared down at him. The man was young, but had a full, well-trimmed beard and long, lustrous dark blonde hair partly pulled back in a knot at the back of his head. His skin was sun-kissed and perfect. He realized that those soft, pink lips had been the ones pressed against his, breathing life back into him. Gentle hands brushed his face. A stylized crown of gold with a perfect ruby stone sat gleaming upon his brow. 

“What the--?” Daryl started. “Who are you?” The pilot rolled away and stood up quickly. “Where am I?”

The young man rose smoothly to his feet. Daryl had never seen a physique like his. The man was lithe and lean with perfect musculature. He was nearly naked except for the belt and divided loin cloth of dark blue material. Gleaming bands of silver covered his forearms while segmented greaves of similar metal covered his knees and high boots. He was unarmed, or at least, he appeared so. Daryl still had his service knife and pistol. 

“Easy,” the prince said. His voice was calm and reassuring, and he gestured in supplication, hands held out with palms facing the pilot. “You are safe now.”

Daryl thought perhaps he could turn the tables on this guy, whoever he was. It was as if he’d stepped off the side of one of the ancient Greek vases he’d seen in the Royal Museum in London or at the Smithsonian in Washington. 

A braying bellow that fell somewhere between a train horn and tortured metal cried out from a cave at the bottom of the cliff wall. Major Dixon came to the conclusion that he was either dead or insane when the creature emerged; it was at least ten feet tall and incredibly broad with a bull’s head, horns, and hooves, and the mottled, mangy, fur-covered body of a man. The beast’s orange-red eyes were dying soulless coals; steam shot from its flaring nostrils as the minotaur snorted loudly and pawed at the sand with his left hoof.

The prince turned to face it, his hands forming fists. Without further preamble, it charged them. 

\----

“Run!” Daryl yelled as he drew his pistol and moved swiftly, placing himself between the young man and the rampaging creature. The thing was fast. He had time for only three shots before he was hoisted off his feet, the creatures’ sharp horns missing him by a hair’s breadth. Everything happened in a blur of motion. The young man cushioned their landing, dropping Daryl down as he crouched down on one knee, his unearthly blue eyes seeming to pierce the pilot’s very soul. Then, just as fast, he sprang from his crouch into an arcing layout sixty feet away and landed in front of the beast. It lunged forward and grabbed him around the body, intent on crushing the life out of him. 

Daryl knew he’d hit the thing, but it hadn’t been enough, and now his rescuer would be broken if he didn’t do something. He raised the weapon again and fired. The bullets struck, but the monster ignored the shots just as it had done before. The beast bellowed once again, but this time it was in frustration. Daryl could see the massive back straining as its arms were forced open. The minotaur howled and snorted, turning to try to gain better leverage as the prince, still alive and well, held it by the wrists. Daryl was left perplexed. The brute tried a desperate move, slinging its formidable horns down before it to gore the beautiful man. In a flash of motion, the young man yanked at the beast’s wrists; there was a gut-wrenching double-snap, like the breaking of sugar cane; both of the minotaur’s shoulders were visibly dislocated. Before the thing could cry out, the young warrior snatched the ends of its horns, turned his own body, and flung the two-ton monster over his head and all the way into the side of the cliff wall more than seventy yards away! The impact resounded like a cannon shot. The beast slumped down, tried to get back up, and fell over either dead or dying. 

The prince moved back over to the pilot. The newlander put away his weapon and stood. He was slightly taller than the prince, but not as tall as King Negamemnon. 

“Invader!” cried Acteon.

“My prince!” Crixius yelled as he and Acteon dove from the cliff’s edge, red cloaks sailing behind them. Their arrows flew to the cliff wall, the coil of cord around their waists swinging them down to a safe landing. It was spectacular! No sooner had they reached the ground than they both had arrows knocked and ready to fire right at Daryl.

_Prince? The crown? What the hell?_

“Hold!” the young man commanded, stepping between them with his back directly to the pilot. “He risked himself against Gorgomor to save me. 

They two well-built, men were unmoving. From above Daryl could see more men diving from the cliff and arcing down on ropes they’d tied to arrows and themselves.

“You won’t be able to hit him,” the young man declared. “Not even this close. Now, please, lower your weapons, brothers.”

Daryl was very confused. More men came riding from farther down the shore and out of an almost imperceptible path out of the tree line. They were reminiscent of the Greek and Spartan warriors, their helms, capes, spears, shields, those polished bracers. Some had sandals and greaves, others boots like the prince. Only one wore a gold and silver cuirass; he was flanked by men with heavier armor of black metal with gold adornment. Others had only Pteryges or loin cloths riding low-slung below their hips. Some wore nothing but the long, crimson cloaks, sandals, and shoulder belts with sword and scabbard. Most were bearded, and only one wore a set of robes. He sat astride a beautiful mare next to the warrior in the golden and silver regalia. The big man jumped from his galloping horse and landed gracefully beside the prince. His dark eyes bore into the pilot. 

Having had enough of Nazi pilots, drowning, and mythological impossibilities, Daryl Dixon squinted his eyes and gave it right back. The man drew a sword and brought it down in a terrifying slash, stopping just before connecting the deadly edge with Daryl’s brow. He held it there a moment, then lowered and sheathed the blade. 

“Father, I—“

The hand that came up stopped the prince’s words instantly. The sovereign stood with long, lean muscles much like his son. The king removed his helm and sighed in irritation. His dark brows and hair yielded to a few silver highlights in his beard and at his temples, giving him a larger than life countenance. When he spoke, his voice was rich with a strong hint of amusement, a streak of anger, and more than a little curiosity. 

“By my own amazing cock given me by father Zeus himself, what have we here?” He wasn’t looking for a response. Daryl sure didn’t give him one. The king tilted his head and looked at the pilot more closely. “You don’t scare easy.” It wasn’t a question. He turned back to his son, reached up, and put one of his huge hands on the back of the young man’s neck and drew him to his chest, kissing the top of his head.

“Bring him,” the king ordered. Daryl was unceremoniously grabbed, wrists bound, and forced to walk for the next hour and a half behind the king’s procession. The prince had tried to argue that guests deserved hospitality, but his father only countered by stating that guests are invited. When the prince looked back again, Daryl shook his head at him. The man was smart enough to understand that the pilot didn’t want to cause him any more trouble, particularly with his father and sovereign. Instead, the beautiful prince slid off his own horse and walked along beside the pilot turned prisoner. 

The king turned to watch his son stride along behind him next to the prisoner, a man who had dared to place his only son in peril. The pilot could see the war of wills going on behind each of their eyes. The king finally turned away to look ahead, never saying a word. The older man in robes rode closer by and gave the prince a pointedly sour expression of disapproval before moving up to ride beside the king. 

Major Dixon mapped the way in his head, thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t been blindfolded. Either he wasn’t considered much of a threat—possible, given the unearthly athleticism and strength these men had displayed—or else they were incredibly naïve. 

The narrow, carved stone path wound between two high, sheer rock faces. The procession rounded a corner, and it opened to reveal a magnificent valley beyond. It was like walking into antiquity itself. The architecture of marble and stonework must have required thousands of people. Palatial buildings and residences, breathtaking colonnades and arcades, exquisite bridges and parapets—all were teaming with men, strong and vibrant in the prime of their lives. Fountains sprayed and filled reservoirs and pools connected to aqueducts; lush, verdant gardens filled the air with bright flowers and exotic perfumes. 

_No women. No children._

They rose through the circular levels until reaching a tremendous palace, terraced and pristine. The party came to a halt, and the riders dismounted. The king looked directly at his son and motioned with his head. Then, he nodded to the prince’s companions, the first to have landed on the shore from the cliff top. Daryl saw Acteon and Crixius approach and flank him. Daryl felt the prince’s hand at his back, a look of compassion on the young man’s stunning face. “It’s going to be all right.”

The older man in the robes looked Daryl over. His impressive, bushy eyebrows would have made him comedic if the situation were different. Hell, Daryl could have even said the man had a grandfatherly quality; he could picture him in a floppy fisherman’s hat, tying a lure onto a rod and reel as they went fishing in the old pond near his uncle’s house. But the man’s smile never quite met his eyes.

“Newlander, you have passed through the Great Veil, infiltrated our sovereign lands, and shed blood on these sacred shores. In the name of King Negamemnon, you will now surrender your weapons and remove your raiment.”

Daryl fixed the man with his stare. The man’s eyebrows rose. “Did I misspeak your words?”

_How the hell do these people know English?_

The king and his son stopped to look back. The older man sighed. “You seem to have understood just fine when my king spoke to you before.” He repeated the initial command in French, Spanish, Mandarin, and German. 

“Who _are_ you people?” Daryl asked, way tired of this game. 

“English it is,” the older man agreed. “I am Daleon, First Minister and Counselor to His Majesty. You will address me as Daleon or First Minister. Who you are, and your intentions, are yet to be discovered. Now, surrender your weapons, and remove your clothing.”

“First Minister,” the prince started, taking a step forward. The king held up a silencing hand that stopped his son’s gate. The young man looked back, his face pleading. “Father, please! He is ignorant of our ways.” 

“Enough,” the king said softly, but his tone indicating zero tolerance for disobedience. He looked back to the two warriors and nodded. 

Daryl dropped low, kicked out to his left, and struck out with his service blade. Crixius had not expected the kick and went down, grabbing his dislocated knee. Acteon, however, had whirled out of the way. A flash of wood went past the pilot’s face and struck the blade. Daryl watched as it clattered far out of reach. Just as he drew the pistol, someone landed between him and the knocked arrow in Acteon’s bow. 

“Stop!” came the prince’s voice. He had bounded over thirty feet in a single jump, once again placing himself between Daryl and danger. Daryl stepped up and moved his gun hand under the prince’s side, his chest pressing into the young man’s own while he continued pointing the weapon at Acteon. 

“Get down!” Daryl insisted, all but hissing his plea into the beautiful man’s ear. The prince blinked once, looking almost amused. Daryl never let his eyes leave Acteon as he tried to maneuver protectively around the royal heir. 

The prince turned his head, his face so close Daryl could smell the hint of mint leaves on his breath. “Please,” he said, reaching up to put one hand on Daryl’s shoulder, the other to his gun arm. “I promise you,” he said, making sure to raise his voice so that the guards, the minister, and his father could hear, “you will not be harmed. I swear it before my father, Negamemnon of Thessalios, High King of the Gargarean Nation.”

Daryl allowed the young man to lower his hand. He’d never told anyone about his…condition. His own father had tried to purge it from him. Now, temptation like he’d never known was less than an inch from his very lips. He handed over his pistol and a spare magazine.

“Thank you.” The prince gave a small smile. Daryl found himself lost in those inquisitive eyes. “Crix?” asked the prince, never breaking eyes with the handsome pilot. 

“I’ve had worse,” Crixius assured. 

Daleon knelt beside the dark haired warrior, looked up into Crixius’ face, got a nod, and snapped the joint back into place. From the sleeve of his robe he produced a small flask, pour some of the dark, wine-colored oil on the man’s knee, and rubbed it in. The man actually got back up, tested the knee, and nodded to the minister. 

“Rest it tonight with a snow bath,” the older man advised, rising with the Gargarean soldier. “The soreness will be gone by dawn.”

The king and two of the other guards in the black metal armor had moved forward. The men flanked him and began to remove his clothing. 

“No!” came the prince’s command. He looked back over his shoulder and continued. “He will give them to me.” The beautiful prince looked back at the pilot expectantly, imploringly. 

Daryl nodded slightly, and the two guards released him and stepped back. He took off his leather jacket, the fleece lining probably ruined from the sea water. He removed his shirt, boots, socks, belt, and pants.

“Your highness?” the pilot asked, unsure. The prince smiled warmly and nodded for him to continue. “In my left sleeve.” He held it up, and the prince pulled it back to reveal and closed straight razor in a special sheath meant for the forearm. The prince removed it carefully. Daryl, swallowed; the king, Minister Daleon, Acteon, Crixius, and the two royal guards had resumed a closer eye. “And, here…”

Daryl lowered his pants to reveal a heavy survival knife in a sheath strapped to his right lower leg. He loosened the stretchy nylon straps and handed the blade and pants over to the prince. 

Major Dixon stood, feeling like a first year cadet at a physical exam. “That’s everything. Scout’s honor.”

The prince looked at him. Daryl just stared and waited. The prince and company continued until one of the guards started to step forward and reach a hand aggressively toward the pilot’s boxers. Faster than a viper, the prince, caught the man’s wrist, twisted it, and flung him bodily fifteen feet away. 

“I am Pol, son of Negamemnon, and Prince of Thessalios,” the prince’s voice was as bold and commanding as his father’s. “You have heard my word to this man. You would act to break it?”

The guard held his wrist and knelt. “Apologies, my prince. This newlander insults your gracious mercy by openly defying you with his small clothes.”

“Defying with my small clothes?” Daryl asked, unclear what he meant until… “Oh. _Oh_!” Daryl swallowed, closed his eyes, and exhaled through his nose, settling his resolve in place. 

“He cannot defy me if he is not my subject,” the prince informed. 

Daryl opened his eyes; he reached down, lowered his boxers, stepped out of them, and handed them over to the prince who handed them to one of the royal guard. This followed with a rush of fire into his face and neck. Acteon’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders squared, and he looked toward his king whose brow had arched. 

“See that these are tended to,” Prince Pol commanded, then turned back to the exposed, strapping man before him who stood covering his genitals much to the amusement of the guards. The prince motioned to Crixius, who immediately unpinned his crimson cloak and handed it over. The prince threw it gently around the pilot’s shoulders, pinning its clasp. Daryl pulled it closer, covering himself a bit better. “Come with me.” They walked together quietly and took up pace behind the king and minister. 

They passed a pair of men in a garden, kissing openly. One had on nothing more than the same kind of cloak Daryl wore with spear resting beside him and shield strapped across his back; the other was dressed in the black armor of the royal guard. The nearly naked soldier was fully aroused, his manhood standing up proudly, pulsing with his excited heartbeat, foreskin pulled back. The well-made royal guardsman kissing him had reached a hand around to caress the man’s buttocks lovingly. 

_Lovers!_

The prince followed his gaze, reached over, and brushed his arm lightly. Daryl felt his skin transform instantly into gooseflesh. He let the young royal link arms with him. He almost tripped on the cloak but recovered and gathered it up a bit more on his right. The prince leaned in to whisper to him. “Are there customs governing nudity among your people?”

“Yes,” Daryl replied. “They’re pretty strict, in fact.” He was blushing again. “I would be arrested. Even thrown out of the military. Might even serve jail time.” 

“There are no such laws here,” the prince informed. “You have a magnificent physique. You should never be ashamed of it. If I may ask, would you consider yourself a typical example of the men of the New Lands?”

“Physically?” Daryl shrugged. “We come in lots of different colors, shapes, and sizes. I’ve been told I have good shoulders and arms.”

“Without doubt,” said the prince, squeezing Daryl’s bicep admiringly. "From what I see, you are blessed with so much more than merely good shoulders and arms." Daryl felt his face burn hot once more.

They arrived in the throne room. Immense columns of white marble with gold veins held up a massive dome three stories above. Braziers smoked with scented wood, and basins of oil burned with a strange, soft light. The circular room was devoid of exterior walls, looking off into the glorious valley, mountainous jungles, and inviting shorelines of the island paradise. At the far end, a huge throne dominated. King Negamemnon stood next to First Minister Daleon. A man wearing a draping, open-sided tunic entered, carrying a purple pillow with a coil of gold upon it. He presented it to the king who took and threaded the thin golden cord in his fingers. 

Prince Pol brought Major Dixon to a halt as the king handed the rope to the First Minister. Daleon took it, stepped down, and looped it once around the pilot. The cord flared to life with a warm glow. Daryl felt at peace, and pliant. 

“What the hell is this?” he said.

“This lasso was forged by the god Hephaestus from the girdle of Gaea. It will not hurt you if you answer and tell the truth,” the First Minister answered. “You cannot resist it. Who are you, and why are you here?”

A flood of warm reached into Daryl’s mind, and before he could stop himself he had answered every question in detail. 

**_I’m Daryl Dixon, a Major in the United States Army Air Forces, assigned to covert reconnaissance and espionage operations in France, Belgium, Italy, Germany, and Austria. I report directly to General Phillip “The Governor” Blake, Office of Strategic Research. I found you by accident while fighting off enemy pursuit. To my knowledge, none of the Allied or Axis forces are aware of your existence, but with the level of daily recon missions that are only increasing, it’s just a matter of time. If I got through, then others will too. This war has been raging for three years. It includes the systematic genocide of entire races and the escalation of weapons development, creations that could destroy entire cities in the blink of an eye. Millions have died already, and I have to help stop that. My current assignment is to make contact with a French scientist, Dr Carol Peletier, who is trying to avoid conscription into the Nazi scientific division. Her prior work with Professor Albert Einstein and Dr Melba Phillips may be the key to fast-pace development of the atomic bomb. I don’t look like a typical soldier as I have been allowed to grow out my hair and beard to better blend in with the masses. Prince Pol, you are truly the most beautiful, most perfect man I’ve ever seen, and I want to make love to you and make you happy for the rest of my life. Oh dear god! Kill me now! Hey! Acteon looks like my older brother Merle did that time I tricked him into wiping his ass with poison oak while on a camping trip. Served him right for that “Darylina” bullshit!_ **

Daryl was breathing hard when Daleon removed the rope. The glow died immediately. Arguments and raised voices broke out all through the room. Debates began as senators and military leaders argued over the appropriate course of action: reinforce the Great Veil; unleash The Beings upon the New Lands; send forth a Hero, armed by the gods, as an emissary to make contact with both side and take appropriate action; declare open war upon the New Lands, take their respective governments, and set them up as proxy heads reporting back to the Senate and the King. 

When the voting was done—to select an emissary and armed him accordingly—and Daryl could concentrate on anything other than Acteon’s glare or Prince Pol’s quiet, reassuring smile, he noticed that his hands had been released. The same half naked steward who had brought that terrifying lasso stood next to him with a bowl of water and a tray with meat, bread, fruit, and what smelled like beer. 

He drank from the bowl of water, much to the shock of several of the men around him. The words “savage” and “barbarian” were tossed about. The prince showed him the finger bowl with herbs in it to wash his hands. 

“Manners are meant to make guests feel welcome,” said the king, his words cutting through the crown like the sting of a whip. “Only savages use them to humiliate a guest.” He stepped over to his son and the pilot. “Major,” he said, his voice holding calm authority. “I’m afraid it has been some time that our world has been separated from yours. You have placed my son’s life before your own. Any man who meant him harm would not have done so. Please accept my thanks and hospitality. I am guessing that you would feel most comfortable with allowing my son to be your guide and companion while you are with us, yes?”

Daryl looked over at Pol, who smiled and nodded. “If it doesn’t interfere or cause him any problems, and if he is okay with it, that would be great, Your Majesty.” The king reached out, and they clasped forearms. “I think he is very attracted to you too, Major.” The regal man released the pilot’s arm and looked at his handsome son. “Our guest has had a day worthy of a Hero. See to his comfort,” Negamemnon said, adding, “immediately.” Pol nodded and stepped next to the pilot.

In a flurry of servants and guards, Acteon and Crixius being notably called back by His Majesty, the pair were escorted to the prince’s personal chambers. Prince Pol led him over to a pool that glowed and steamed quietly in a tiled chamber off to one side. Two men stepped up to help disrobe them both, but the prince dismissed them and sat on the edge of the water. Daryl wrapped himself better in Crixius’ cloak and sat next to him. 

“They will bring food soon,” Prince Pol explained. “Do you want water, tea, wine, beer, ale, mead?”

“Beer,” he said shyly. “Beer’s good.”

Pol hopped up and walked over to a table, poured golden liquid from a pitcher into two goblets, brought them back, and knelt before him. Daryl blushed; he was definitely not used to attention—not openly. 

"Would you like to bathe with me?” asked the prince. “The waters are blessed by Poseidon. It’s very soothing.”

“I—“ Daryl started, feeling at a complete loss for words. 

Pol’s face became a picture of understanding and sympathy. “Your world has forgotten the power and glory of love between men. They’ve been made to fear it. Now, they know nothing of its grandeur as they teach hate and shame in its place.”

Daryl tried to nod and gave a frustrated sigh, hanging his head dejectedly. He was on the verge of tears. His feelings had been splayed out on floor of the throne room just as if the king had gutted him with his sword. He felt the hand on his cheek and looked up into the Prince’s magnificent eyes. 

“You’re here with me now,” Pol comforted. “I would never force you to do anything you are uncomfortable with. I can go and come back later. I don’t ever want you to feel bad about your feelings. If you need me to, I will summon someone else to—“

“God, no!” Daryl blurted, his face was scrunched up, tears starting to stream. “Please stay!” He was gripping the prince’s free hand. “Just worried about getting—you know.”

Pol leaned up and kissed the handsome man’s forehead. “I will, I will. I’m here. Please do not worry,” he soothed, taking the spy hands into his own and punctuating his words with tender kisses to the knuckles and palms before looking back into Daryl’s eyes, his words irrefutable. “And, I see those every day of my life. If you have one because of me, it’s not anything to be embarrassed about. In fact, we consider it very, very flattering. It means you’re virile and interested, and as large as yours seems to be, that fact that it stands up for me would get me a great deal of compliments.” 

“Not sure Acteon would feel that way,” Daryl said, huffing a small laugh, his facing burning red.

“Saw that, did you?” asked, Pol. 

“Hard to miss.”

The prince touched his face. “Don’t worry. I have not been with him in centuries—and yes, I mean actual centuries.”

The spy shook his head as he tried to wrap his brain around this news. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Against your calendar, twenty-seven hundred, thirty-one,” Pol said, smiling. “Our service grants us long life and youth. Now, let’s get in the pool and relax.” Daryl’s jaw dropped and he just looked at the young man.

The prince picked up the goblets and gave one to Daryl. Before he could change his mind, Daryl stood, unclasped the cloak, and got into the bath. He smiled up as he saw the prince stand, smiling at him. His face was in awe when the man unhooked the clasps of his belt and dropped it and the blue cloth to the floor before slipping into the water and bringing Daryl his drink. Daryl had never seen anything so perfect, and now, he was indeed very hard. So was the prince!

They came to rest on submerged stone benches to sit and languish in the warm water. Setting their drinks on the edge of the pool, Pol handed Daryl a sponge he first dipped into an oily liquid in a bowl near the drink stand. The young man immersed himself fully in the water and came up his hair pulled over his right shoulder. 

“Do you mind?”

Daryl nodded, took the sponge, and sidled up behind his gorgeous host. When he’d gotten ready to begin, he had stopped. Though the Prince did not recoil, Daryl knew Pol had felt his erection press into the exquisite man's backside. To his utter amazement, the prince moved back closer, pressing the column between them. He stoked the beautiful back and shoulders, washing them. When the prince turned around, he could feel each of their impressive cocks rubbing together. Daryl was ready to come undone. He had to be dead, and he was definitely in heaven.

“And _that_ , Major, means that I am flattered,” the prince informed the spy, voice a breathy whisper. “And _this_ means I find you incredibly attractive too.”

Daryl let the man move forward, their lips meeting. 

“You’re still blushing, Major,” the prince whispered into the kiss. 

Daryl felt the man take the sponge from his hand as his lips parted, and his tongue moved forward to touch his own lips, a knock at an open doorway. They kissed for what seemed like hours to Daryl, losing themselves in peaceful bliss. A flicker of movement caught his eye. The two handsome men from earlier were bringing in trays and placing them on the stone side of the bathing pool. 

Daryl moved back toward side of the pool, but the prince smile kindly and pulled him back over. For his frame, the young man’s strength was seemingly impossible. 

“They don’t mind,” he whispered. “In fact, they anticipated that we might already be making love together and brought us these things to help.” The prince kissed him deeply again. “There is no one here to judge you.” Pol motioned with his head, and the men left them alone again.

Daryl turned around to stand and look over at the trays on the side of the pool. There were glass and metal bottles of what looked to be various oils. There were two sprigs of a plant he’d never seen with leaves like a camellia and small purplish-gray berries, a bowl of snow, a pair of peacock feathers, and a bowl of marble stones about an inch in diameter. The next tray had a water basin, a pot with more of the strange soap that smelled of fir and cloves, folded hand cloths, and several flexible anal plugs. He’d seen similar items in a back room of a particular salon in Berlin once. 

He flinched, when he felt the sponge touch his back. 

“I’m so sorry,” Pol said. “Do they hurt?”

“Sometimes,” Daryl muttered. “I should put on a shirt.”

He started to turn away when he felt the strong hands gently stroke his biceps. The prince’s enormous cock was pressing up against his ass. 

“How?”

Daryl Dixon did not answer this question to anyone, not even his best friend in the world. 

“My father,” he muttered. “He found out I was queer. Tried to pray it away and beat it out of me.” 

“This is the second tactic of Eris: Sow dissent between men that they may not know the wonders of masculine unity,” Pol said quietly. He pressed his face gently to the spy's back. “May I comfort you, Daryl?”

It was the first time the prince had used his name, and it was magical. He could only nod. Easing forward, the young man kissed and massaged his back. Even the tiniest mark was given ministration. 

“Is that better—?“

Daryl turned and pulled the man into his arms, lifting him up, sloshing water out carelessly onto the tile of the floor. He carried him out of the pool and over to the bed at the side of the room. 

“I’ll take that as a yes!” laughed the prince, arms and legs wrapped around the handsome soldier. 

The open air of the terrace licked at their skin as he lay the prince on the soft hide and fur blankets. In due course, Daryl came gloriously over the both of them as his magnificent prince climaxed deep inside of him. It was the first of his scars to fade away. 

They made love the rest of the afternoon. The berries, as it turns out, were to enhance Daryl’s drive, if needed. He tried one and was hard as stone for hours. The oils were invaluable, given that both the pilot and the prince were rather exceptional in length and width. 

At sunset, they were outside on the terrace. Daryl had just brought the prince to climax between their bodies, painting stomachs and chests thoroughly, holding the young beauty up on the wall, legs wrapped around Daryl’s waist as his own climax unloaded in Pol’s divine warmth. 

They were laughing and panting together, riding their latest victory down when Pol’s face and arm jerked. There was a ping of metal and clatter of wood. Slivers of wood were in his hair. Daryl smiled on but looked confused, not realizing what had happened. 

“Get down!” said Pol, already pulling off of his cock and moving out to the edge of the terrace. 

Daryl looked around. He saw the broken shaft and dented arrowhead. Someone had tried to kill them.


	2. The Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pol is forbidden from entering a contest to select the Gargarean emissary while he and Daryl wait under house guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcome, and kudos are most appreciated! Hope you enjoy the twisted take on an old favorite! Get your Andronium bracers & greaves on, peeps! Happy reading! 
> 
> <3 XOXO

Everything was a flurry of activity. Six of the royal guard faced outward, lining the very edge of the open balcony of the Prince’s chambers and watching out across the terraced landscape. Six more were within: two stood watch outside the chamber entrance; two waited inside the bath and privy area; the last two took station at the foot of the bed. Servants had been dismissed, and the commanding presence of King Negamemnon filled the rooms. 

Jaered, the king’s consort and a tall warrior of the royal guard with long, blonde hair, steely blue eyes, and close trimmed beard, had entered at the king’s side and now stood doting over the prince and their guest. Daryl and Pol were both still naked and very hard. Daryl’s face and neck burned scarlet, and he wondered where Crix’s crimson cloak was. No doubt it had been cleared away by the ever-dutiful servants who were gone at present. The consort knelt down and placed what he meant to be comforting hands on both of their thighs.

“I know the presence of the guard is intrusive, your Highness,” the beautiful guardsman said. “But until His Majesty is satisfied that you and the major are secure—“

The doors of the chamber were opened as the royal guard outside were literally pushed in ahead of the intruder. The king held up a hand and the guardsmen relented, allowing the general to enter.

“Let him in,” King Negamemnon said and sighed, glancing back over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”

“I can hold a sword,” Symonicus answered. “Hence, I am recovered, my King.” He bowed to his brother. His words were terse; anger seethed behind his eyes. His black and iron-gray mustache did nothing to hide the look of utter outrage on his face. The man’s left arm and upper chest were both bandaged; his breathing was hard and labored. What Daryl had thought to be blood was actually more of the wine-colored healing oil coating the tall commander’s wrappings. Without another word, he stalked over to the balcony, took stock of the scene for a moment, and turned back to approach his nephew. Jaered rose, touched Pol’s face and squeezed Daryl’s knee, then nodded and gave a fist-to-heart salute to the general before moving back to take his place next to Negamemnon. 

Symonicus inclined his head to his subordinate and to his nephew. Clearly, he noticed the major and took stock of their state of dress. “You were sporting together outside when it happened?”

Daryl caught the man’s meaning. He looked at him to see if he was being addressed directly. To his surprise, he was indeed. He stood, trying to ignore his more-than-obvious erection and finding relief that no one mentioned it beyond a glance here and there. “We were…coupling against the wall,” he explained, his voice heavy and heated with anger of his own. “Pol moved—“

“ _Prince_ Pol,” Daleon’s precise voice corrected. The First Minister had apparently followed the general inside, quiet as a shadow.

Daryl stared back, his annoyance evident. “We had just…finished together. Prince Pol seemed to tense up. I thought maybe, maybe I had done something wrong,” Daryl recounted. “There was a pinging sound of metal-on-metal, then I felt and saw the wood splinters, first in his hair and then in my own. We stopped, and he told me to get down. I did as he asked, not sure what had happened. He picked up a blunted arrowhead and the remains of a ruined shaft and fletching. I guess we lucked out.”

“What do you mean?” the general inquired, looking confused.

“We lucked out that his arm was just so. That he’d kept his forearm guards on,” Daryl explained.

Symonicus tilted his head and looked at his sovereign then back at his nephew. The king was also listening carefully. 

“You’re the newlander everyone is going on about,” said the general. It wasn’t a question. The general looked him up and down, this time noting the erection more pointedly with an arched eyebrow, some of his ire diminishing. He looked at his nephew and took note of his similar condition. “You both did well,” the general allowed, “particularly against an unseen foe while in the throes of your passions.”

The prince nodded in acceptance of the compliment from his uncle. “If it please you both,” Prince Pol said with an air of diplomacy. “I am alive thanks to the skills I’ve mastered at your teachings, my king, and my general. Surely it must be one of The Beings. No doubt Gorgomor’s defeat has stoked a desire for retribution.”

“What do you propose?” asked King Negamemnon. “You wish to take a hunting party? Scour the Wild Steppes beyond the Acrissian Range?”

“No, Majesty.”

The king turned to look fully at his son; his face was hard and unamused. Daryl figured whatever Pol was about to say was not going to go over well.

“Remove the royal guard,” said the prince. “If this coward wishes to strike at me, he must come closer. If he does, I must defeat him and bring him before you to face justice.”

“And if he is not alone, my Prince?” asked Daleon, brows furrowed in frustration. “Your security is paramount.”

“The security of _all_ of our people is paramount, First Minister,” Prince Pol countered. “I will not ask our guards to take any risk I am not willing to take. Besides, the present show of force may already have deterred further action against us, but if not, then I must defeat this enemy and his allies.”

Symonicus shook his head, and growled in annoyance. “I will hunt them!”

“No, brother,” the king said. “I need you fully recovered.”

The general looked as if he were about to dispute his condition when the king, gripped the commanding officer’s left arm, causing him to lock his jaws in frustration, face turning purple with rage. “Hephaestus’ blistered nut sac!” yelled the general. 

“Soon,” the king said, his own face now barely an inch from his brother’s snorting nose. He gestured for the sage. “Go back with Daleon. Let him work with the Healers.” The king looked to the First Minister and said, “I need him battle-ready in two days.”

Daleon bowed and answered, “By the will of Apollo and your command, my King, it will be done.”

“Two days,” Symonicus said, he knelt on one knee, bowed, and saluted his king, then rose to storm back out of the chamber, leaving poor Daleon to catch up. 

“I will consider your proposal, my son,” Negamemnon said. “The guard will remain until I am convinced that you and the major are truly secure. Rest well in the fact that it is due to your exceptional prowess that I even entertain such a course of action. In the meantime, I must meet with our Senators concerning the contest.”

“A contest?” Pol asked, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and drawing up those plump, perfect lips to part for bright teeth. Daryl saw the fire light up in his beautiful prince’s eyes. 

“Yes!” Jaered smiled. “Games worthy of the gods!” Negamemnon could no longer hold back his own subtle smile drawn from the shared excitement of his son and his lover. 

“As you no doubt heard before retiring with the major,” the king explained, “it has been decided that we will send an emissary to the New Lands. This representative must be powerful, cunning, and of the ideal in representing our society and making the proper assessment of our role in this World War the major has described to us. A contest will be held to find a man of such greatness, one worthy of wielding the weapons and wonders of divine temper that have been entrusted us by the gods.”

“Oh, father! This is magnificent news!!!” the prince exclaimed. “I cannot wait to compete! I know I will make you so proud—“

“No.” The king’s smile never faltered, but it did change into something sad. Pain was there, clearly visible in the ruler’s eyes. Jaered’s lips parted, but the king’s raised hand stole away his voice. 

“Father?” the prince asked. “I don’t understand.”

“And in this,” the king intoned, “my beloved son, my only privilege is to know that as ruler here, I do not have to have a reason nor to submit justification for my decision.” 

“But father,” the prince softly protested.

“It is already decided,” the king said. “I assure you, in this I will not be dissuaded. As your father, I urge you to remain with our friend, Daryl. Ease each other’s minds, bodies, and spirits together in unity. You will only serve to frustrate yourself by trying to persuade me to change my mind in this, my son.” The king gently reached over to squeeze his son’s shoulder. “You have always made me proud. Please do so again in obedience to this.”

Prince Pol sighed and lowered his head. The king kissed him on top of his head, then turned to find his consort there. “My King,” said Jaered, inclining his head to his powerful lover, finding the king’s strong hand, and placing it against his cheek. “Let me come to you tonight, that I may sooth your brow and ease your mind.”

Daryl saw the tender touch returned by the king, who nodded and replied, “Come to me after the evening’s deliberations, and I will allay _your_ fears instead.” Jaered’s eyes were wet, and the beautiful man accepted the invitation.

The king took his leave, his royal guard remaining steadfast and stalwart. Jaered watched him go before turning back to a disappointed Pol. 

“He doesn’t mean to curtail your liberty. He loves you so.”

“Thank you, Jaered, but don’t worry yourself,” Pol assured. “I’m not given over to anger at my father’s words. I know it comes from a place of love. He is my father and my king, and the two cannot always run the same course.”

“Yes,” Jaered agreed. “He has even decided that the contestants must be masked and anonymous, lest one rely on old reputation, countenance, or political bearing rather than skill.” 

“Indeed,” Pol said. Daryl could almost hear the wheels turning in his beautiful prince’s head. “Once again, my father shows tactical brilliance worthy of his station.”

“He follows his instincts, my Prince,” Jaered said, smiling kindly. “Perhaps tonight, you should follow those of yours and our honored guest. Follow your instincts to the greatest of heights.”

Prince Pol looked at him. The man pointedly arched an eyebrow and motioned his head toward each of their straining, skyward erections. 

“By your leave, my Prince,” Jaered bowed, saluting and turning to stride out and prepare for his rendezvous with his sovereign lover.

Pol sighed and stepped back to join Daryl on the bed. Daryl reached out and drew the wounded man into his arms, lying back to let his perfect royal press their throbbing cocks together and rest his forehead under the pilot’s chin. Pol played with Daryl’s large bicep, drawing freely with a finger. 

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Daryl admitted. “I feel like I failed you.”

Pol leaned up and looked at him with those divine misty-blue eyes. “What makes you think such a thing?”

Daryl shrugged, “Just sat there when I could have told them about how you threw a giant minotaur like he was a feather pillow. Can all the men here do that?”

Pol smiled and traced his fingers along Daryl’s chest, ribcage, and left hip. “This island is blessed by the gods,” Paul explained softly. “The men have strength, speed, stamina, healing. We are able to learn quickly; languages, history, tactics, science, mathematics. Our senses are sharp, and our memories are long.”

Daryl smiled shyly up at his prince. “That’s not _all_ that’s long.” 

Pol’s brilliant smiled transformed to a leer. “You would know, my beauty.”

Daryl scoffed and looked away, “Ain’t—“

“Hold,” Pol cut him off. He brushed Daryl’s hair from his face, turned him back to face him, and leaned down, kissing the spy within an inch of his life. “Know this, Major Daryl Dixon of the United States: I do not give of myself to the undeserving. I do not share my soul with you to manipulate you. I truly admire you. You live your life in service and love for people. You risk your safety for others against the forces of darkness and brutality. And, yes,” Pol said pointedly, his voice deadly serious, “I share my heart with you this day because you are _beautiful_ , inside and out. The Lasso cannot lie.” He rubbed down to Daryl’s almost painful hard-on. “Neither does this.”

“That berry I ate—“

“Wore off two hours before sunset,” the prince whispered hotly in Daryl’s ear. Daryl nearly came again. 

The prince worked his soft, pink lips and tongue down pilot’s chest to his nipples, licking, sucking and biting playfully. He kissed his way down the pilot’s chest and abdomen, mouthing at the fine trail of hair on Daryl’s stomach and around his navel. 

The spy laughed as the prince tickled his lower abdomen torturously with lips, teeth, tongue, and beard. Pol slathered a line of kisses down the pilot’s Atlas belt while stroking his thighs. When the pilot could take no more teasing, the prince pulled Daryl’s hardness to his lips and worked the head insistently, drawing moans of pleasure from the strapping man beneath him. He pushed Daryl’s legs apart. A servant had appeared long enough to hand him a bottle of oil and vanish. Daryl felt the finger playing with his flexing hole, the lubricant making it tingle and relax. 

“Yes!” Daryl hissed. Paul pushed a finger inside and lowered his mouth down on the spy’s massive endowment. “Oh, dear god!”

He looked down to see Pol looking back at him with those glorious eyes as he proceeded to add another finger. Daryl threw back his head, crying and pleading for more. The prince’s other hand was busy working the pilot’s perineum and balls, occasionally reaching his fingers up to run through the soft thick, brown hair around the base of Daryl’s shaft and pressing down against the tight flesh over his pubis. It was pushing him closer to the edge and driving him insane with need.

Daryl reached down and drew the man up, turning him over on his back and straddling his hips. Pol’s smile and look of sheer surprise was priceless. Panting, he reached back and lined himself up, no longer giving a damn who else stood in the room. The king himself could be watching and he couldn’t have stopped himself. He needed Pol, needed to give himself back to Pol. Daryl reached for his prince’s long, thick shaft, aligned it with his entrance, and sunk down upon it, eliciting groans from the both of them. 

Daryl began to lift and lower himself over and over on the prince’s magnificent cock. The beautiful man was following Daryl’s every minute motion and flex like a trained stallion beneath him, responding with unbridled passion and thrusting carefully to hit that certain spot within him. Daryl felt the warmth in his abdomen fall low and roll hot in his groin. The prince saw the reddening of Daryl’s neck and chest noted the intensity of his fucking. Pol reached down and gripped the man’s huge penis with both hands, stroking it with fast, slick motion. 

“Pol! I’m coming! I’m—“ Daryl cried out. His seed launched skyward and landed on the prince’s chest, shoulders, neck, and face. Pol’s eyes locked with his and he replied, “Yes, Dayrl! Yes! Yes!” Daryl could feel the exquisite heat of Pol coming within him, glorious and unrepentant. Pol glistened under Daryl, who leaned back with Pol’s awesome member still inside of him, filling him with a feeling he never wanted to end. He and Pol laughed when they both noted the continuing hardness of his cock, still jutting upward—to the windows…

_Follow your instincts to the greatest of heights._

\----

Pol waited until Daryl was clean, fed, and fast asleep, satiated and exhausted completed by their sporting. When Daryl had felt up to mounting him, he ordered the curtains around his bed alcove drawn, letting the guards believe the newlander still had compunctions about intimate privacy during sexual intercourse. It hadn’t been far off the mark. His brawny soldier certainly hadn’t appreciated the nods of approval and calls of encouragement from the guards.

Jumping silently up to the window above had been simple. He scaled the walls with ease and ran along the edge of the building to leap and twist, landing on the soft ground sixty feet below. Silently, he made his way across to the temple of his heavenly father. 

Once, the Gargareans had wives and consorts; the women warriors had shared a similar but separate society, meeting every year to couple and propagate. In pity—and according to some, out of lust—Zeus had coupled with Negamemnon after Eris had locked away the Amazon Nation with the help of the traitor, Heracles. Prince Apollonius of Thessalios had been the fruit of that divine union. 

The guards were still and silent, dazed. Pol was taken aback and started to raise an alarm until he heard the voice, strong and deep. 

**_“My son.”_ **

He stopped. 

**_“Come to me”._ **

Pol moved into the temple. The usually visible white marble was dim and hazy with the sweet wood smoke from the braziers. He could see his reflection in the highly polished floor, but the walls were all but obscured. 

**_“Your time is at hand. The New Lands call out, and you must answer. But my son will not do so unprepared. While our faithful servants will bestow gifts of matter, we reveal your inner gifts.”_ **

“Father Zeus.” It wasn’t a question. Pol feel to his knees. 

**_“Within you burns the light of justice to know your way, little namesake, but I grant you my healing light, that they world may again know the Unity of Man. And to see you safely forth, I grant you the Hunter’s Eyes, that you never miss and your quarry never elude. If you miss, you have chosen to do so.”_ **

“Gratitude to you, Benevolent Apollo, healer and hunter,” whispered the humbled prince. 

**_“The Gargareans are the greatest warriors of all men; I cannot be more proud of their devotion, but you must be the greatest warrior among the Gargareans, surpassing even their mightiest cohorts, for your prowess and skill must have no equal; I give you that, and may your foes shudder with limp cocks just to behold you in your sleep!”_ **

“Gratitude, Mighty Ares, patron and brother to us all!” Pol cried out.

**_“Speed, cunning, stealth, and liberty from Gaea’s apron strings I give you, brother! You shall move as a true son of Zeus!”_ **

“I am honored by my brother and messenger of the gods for his consideration. These I humbly accept.”

**_“Fear not poison of plant, animal, mineral, nor The Beings. But I require that you indulge and enjoy your nature when time allows, for how else can you exemplify the Unity?”_ **

“I drink to your honor and passion, and I speak gratitude, Dionysis!”

**_“I have cradled you since you were a child, and your love for my kingdom and the creatures in it abounds. The stamina of the ocean and tides I give to you, nephew, for nothing outlasts them, and they renew in all things.”_ **

“Gratitude, my lord Uncle Poseidon, friend and provider to the Gargarean Nation.”

**_“Nephew, you have kept faith with me when others have besmirched my name and province. The strength of the earth and the power of the Underworld fuels your muscles. You will never be gripped by fear and your strength shall be everlasting.”_ **

“Gratitude, my lord uncle Hades, faithful keeper of the Afterlife.”

**_“Our love to you, Apollonius. The machinations of Eris have forever burned away the bonds I forged between the Amazons and the Gargareans. Now, those women warriors are lost to us, but the goddesses of Olympus grant you that which is left us: Strength, Love, Honor, Wisdom, Beauty, Patience. Our only request is that you avenge the Amazon Nation: the sisters, wives, aunts, mothers, and grandmothers of the Gargareans. In doing so, you are blessed far beyond reckoning, and we are exalted once more.”_ **

“Great Hera, mighty Athena, lovely Aphrodite, faithful Artemis, blessed Hestia, merciful mother goddesses, I swear it before my fathers,” Pol answered, head bowed.

**_“My son, you will need this, but above all, you will need your courage. For when you have it, you are invincible. Your family on Olympus rejoices in your glory, such so that we have not celebrated the like since the time of your brother Perseus. Now, go forth in strength and honor that Man may know the Power of Unity once more, my beloved Pol.”_ **

“Yes, Father, king of the gods and lord of the heavens. Gratitude without measure.”

An ancient, worn theatre mask lay at his feet. He knew what he had to do. 

\----

Daryl woke, rested and starving. He kissed down the length of Prince Pol’s back, rousing his exquisite lover. They refreshed themselves, bathed together, and dressed in Pteryges, chest harness, and high boots. Daryl was given a new cloak of emerald green with intricate, Greek scrollwork of gold thread on the hems. He loved it. 

They broke their fast with the king. Daryl noticed a naked, _very_ erect Jaered still lying on his back and fast asleep from their night’s exertions on the king’s bed. Afterward, Pol took Daryl on a tour of the palace and several temples. He recounted to Daryl the history of the Gargarean Nation, the founding of the island paradise of Thessalios, and their ongoing opposition to Eris, goddess of strife. For the next two days, they explored the island together. Daryl had never been big on horses, but when Pol sat him in front of him on the back of a winged steed, he again had to question his sanity. The view of the island was absolutely breathtaking. They swam in island pools and slid down slick river beds. The made love in grottos and against cliff sides. They massaged one another and languished together, eating fruits while reclining collectively in the giant branches of shading trees.

As with himself and the prince, and the king and his consort, Daryl noticed that there were many couples throughout the island. Pol explained that some were even polyamorous, but there were no Roman orgies; Pol teased Daryl that such things were but a fantasy for horned newlanders. 

They toured through the arena where men practiced for the upcoming contest. They watched men practice with swords, spears, and bows. Daryl surprised several of the archers, showing himself to be of considerable skill and explaining that he’d hunted with a bow since he could draw it at the age of eleven. Pol politely refused to take part in any practice. When questioned, he simply smiled and suggested that perhaps Daryl had exhausted him. The major had blushed furiously at the ribbing he’d received. Pol made it up to Daryl that night, taking the opportunity to give the pilot a repeat performance on the balcony now that his father had finally dismissed the royal guards from his chambers. 

When they lay together that night, they spoke about the games the next day. Pol sounded sad and forlorn at his father’s refusal to budge on allowing his participation.

“Would you be happy to watch with me?” Daryl asked.

Paul kissed him sweetly and answered, “I’d rather watch you, just the two of us.”

Daryl smiled back hugged the prince close. His own heart began to hurt as a realization started to set in, something he’d tried not to face. “I’m going to have to leave soon.”

“I know,” Pol said sadly.

“I don’t suppose I could—I mean, after the war is over,” Daryl said. 

The prince’s voice was firm. “I should demand it of my father. It would be my right to claim you as consort,” Pol said. “If you are willing.” Before Daryl could respond his affirmation, Pol placed his fingers over the man’s lips. “I need you to answer with your head as well as your heart, beloved. You have a world to save, and it would be horribly selfish of me to force you to choose. I cannot.”

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Daryl said bluntly. 

“When Eros' arrow pierced your heart, he did so during our union, and it passed through your body to impale my heart as well, Daryl,” Pol said, his eyes shining. “What if there was a way we could leave together? Would you be willing to try?”

“Anything,” Daryl answered, kissing his prince’s chest.

Pol reached under the bed and sat back up to produce an ancient, Greek theatre mask and handed it to the spy.

\----

The king sat in the royal stands with General Symonicus and the First Minister. The seat at his right was deliberately empty. Jaered sat beyond with Major Dixon. Flights of arrows sailed impossible lengths, shots requiring movement from horseback or falling from scaffolding on cords made the shots even more unreal. A masked competitor with strawberry blonde tresses—Daryl recognized Acteon’s flowing mane right away—fired against his opponent, a well-built warrior of chestnut locks and scruffy beard, who was in a spinning fall down the scaffolding rope, loosing four arrows at once to Acteon’s two. Acteon’s arrows were shot right out of mid-air and the other two arrows split the bullseye shaft of a prior competitor and sunk clear down to the fletching.

The dark-haired warrior out-ran, out-lifted, and out-jumped every opponent in his section of the draw, moving up the competition quickly. In sword play, he was disarmed early, only to take out the other nine opponents with his bare hands. His spear flew beyond the end of the field to land dead center in a marble column.

\----

King Negamemnon raised his hand to signal the two warriors at the far colosseum wall. Together, the men strained against the lever. Three more joined them, and it finally moved. The thick metal and stone door lifted slowly, silently. A noxious, oily brown vapor rolled forth along the arena floor, and a terrible low hiss seemed to come from everywhere. Spectators lifted feet in the stands, sure that something was ready to strike at heel or calf. As the warrior looked into the darkness of the hypogeum, nine pairs of eyes gleamed with a malevolent fire. The shiny black, dark green, and sickly yellow scales burst forth from the darkness, necks flared and forked tongues flicking. Two of the heads hissed back at the door. The noxious vapor caused the stone and metal to pit and etch upon contact. 

Without preamble, the hydra lurched forward, charging at the warrior, four of its heads spewing deadly, caustic fumes and roaring. The beast was crafty: while some of its heads struck out, others feinted, trying to create lethal mistakes. In a daring axial spin, the warrior leaped the fuming blasts, caught two of the striking heads in mid-air, and carried them along in his momentum while kicking the hydra’s central head with a ferocity and strength the beast could not match. While it was thoroughly stunned, the warrior summoned his might and slung the beast by the two heads back to the threshold of the hypogeum where it was trying to recover. He’d been careful not to pull the heads off nor smash them, lest two more grow; such was the power of the hydra.

He crouched and sprang back in an open layout, flying back over fifty feet to land beside the gate lever and lift it. The door lowered down enough to pin the beast before he single-handedly stopped the massive switch. Quick as a shot, the warrior snatched up a broken spear from the round and threw it mightily at the support pylon for a vast, iron bowl of burning oil, striking it with a resounding crack that sheared the metal in two and dumped the burning oil down onto the trapped beast. The terrible scream of the hydra’s death throes paled next to the cheer of the crowd. 

Four contestants immediately relented, bowing and saluting to the superior fighter.

\----

 

In the end, two remained. One, Daryl could see clearly as Acteon. The other was the dark-haired Gargarean. Two archers entered the field and took aim at each of them. The shafts flew. In a blur of motion, both men brought up their bracers to deflect the arrows.

_That’s how--? He actually stopped it. It wasn’t luck—it was unearthly skill!_

Two more archers entered the field and took aim along with the first two. Arrows began firing in quick succession. Each warrior deflected them, not just with bracers, but in a dance-like motion with the greaves as well. Four more warriors entered the field. The first held Daryl’s service pistol. Three were armed with machine guns. Two were clearly German, one was American. 

_They got the spare guns from the planes!_

“Your Majesty!” Dayrl cried out. “Those are machine guns—“

The king and the general peered at him a moment. Jaered placed a hand over Daryl’s and said in a calm voice, “Have faith, my friend. The bracers and greaves are forged of Andronium, metal sacred to Father Zeus.”

The king peered at Daryl, then out to the field. He looked back at the major, scrutinizing. He squinted out at the scars lining the edge of the shoulders under the contestant’s cuirass. And the _chestnut hair_. To the shock of others in the royal stands, Kiing Negamemnon stood and strode over to Major Dixon. Daryl stayed still as a statue as the tall monarch inspected the color, length, and cut of his hair, running his fingers through the ends of it before looking out at the Gargarean contestant again and back to him. Daryl finally turned and looked at him, knowing the ruse was over.

The First Minister, stood close, watching and realizing with a gasp what had occurred. “It must be done, Majesty. If these are the weapons he will face, then the emissary must be able to best them.”

The king looked out over the throng. The armed warriors looked up to the royal stands. The general stood and made his way to the sidelines. When he arrived, the king nodded. Bullets and arrows flew, the contestants blurred, and the adamant Andronium held, the incoming metal shattering and sparking against it. In three seconds, Acteon had taken a grazing arrow wound across his right thigh and a slug into his left shoulder, knocking him out. The last warrior moved in front of his fallen opponent and fended off every final shot. Out of nowhere, the general lifted a terrible looking bow of black wood and loosed. There was a mighty clap of thunder and flash of light as the loosed arrow became a thunderbolt. When the smoke cleared, the last warrior stood, the Andronium bracers crossed before him and turning back to silver from brilliant, fiery orange. 

A repeated cheer of three deep shouts saluted the lone victor. The general handed the dark bow to be put away and waited for the victor to arrive and follow him to the king’s presence. But first, the victor picked up Acteon and carried him over to the on-rushing Healers. Once his competitor was in capable hands, he strode up to the general and followed him up the steps. Jaered ushered Daryl to follow him over to the king’s side. The First Minister looked ashen; he had not closed his mouth since General Symonicus’ thunderbolt had struck home and been completely thwarted by this warrior.

“As in the days of old,” King Negamemnon began,” we have gathered to find the best among us. “Remove your mask, that we might honor you.”

Slowly, the man removed the mask. Daryl Dixon’s perfect twin stood in cuirass, Pteryges, and boots, with greaves and bracers. 

“I said, ‘remove your mask,’”’ the king repeated quietly. 

The warrior looked over at Daryl, knelt before his sovereign, and touch his hands to pull at his face. The skin rippled like water and an ancient Greek theatre mask came away, revealing the gorgeous face of Prince Pol. Daryl let go of the breath he’d been holding as he looked his cherished prince over and found not even the smallest scratch. 

“This is outrageous, even for you, your Highness! What do you have to say for yourself?” spat the First Minister.

Prince Pol looked back up to the minister, then his uncle, his father, his lover, and back to his father again. “I can only say that I follow the will and words of my _fathers_ , in as best I can. His Majesty understands the difficulties of parenting when one must be king and father. I can only advise you, First Minister, to count yourself lucky that you do not face the challenges of being son to the king of our people and the king of our gods.”

King Negamemnon knelt to take his son’s face in his hands. “I expect no less, from the most divine blessing I have ever received. Go with your uncle.” Negmemnon’s voice was barely a whisper right in his son’s ear. “Go forth with Daryl, and when the conflict is done, bring him home with you as consort; he loves you with all that is his to give. There is nothing greater in existence, not even in the halls of Olympus nor the Elysian Fields.” The king leaned back and looked into his son’s eyes, committing the look on his face, the smile his words had just produced, to his deepest memory and raising his voice again. “Remember that wherever you travel, your father and I are with you in this heart of yours.” He touched his son’s breastplate and smiled softly. “And know always, that in all the wide world of men, you are truly a _wonder_.”

The king and the prince clasped forearms and kissed each other’s cheeks. General Symonicus whisked Daryl and Pol away with his contingent. 

“Where did he find that mask?” the king asked aloud. 

“The Mask of Maia was lost on Themiscyra,” the First Minister answered. “Unless…”

“He is his _fathers’_ son,” replied Jaered. “Even Perseus started with nothing.”

“What game does Zeus play to take your son at a time like this?” Daleon lamented.

The king stood and sighed, his hand finding comfort against Jaered’s buttocks. “Contemplate that, Daleon. And while you’re at it, contemplate your role in questioning the plans which the king of the gods might have for his son. Be at peace; I would guess you do not play a great role therein.”

The First Minister pursed his lips and scowled in frustration while the king pulled Jaered close and kissed his most beautiful consort. 

\----

“You really are a pain in the ass, nephew,” Symonicus groused half-heartedly as they strode quickly along through the hall of Dike. “And _you_!” he said, nodding at the pilot. “You had best begin to think with the head on your shoulders. Everyone is very aware that you can make each other’s columns stand tall enough to hold up Olympus, but this is no game. Eris—malevolent canker-cunt that she is—is very real, and she already knows that we move against her.” He stopped at a great vault door. “That’s why she tried to strike at you—not personally, to be sure, but you can best bet she was behind it. That’s why you need _these_.”

He placed his hand upon the door and it became as smoke. The trio stepped within. Smokeless fire was burning eerily in wall sconces every few feet. An armory of intricate displays filled the room, every alcove and wall revealing some new, ornate marvel. General Symonicus led Pol to the far wall. Dark blue Pteryges studded with Andronium stars, crimson and brass boots with Andronium greaves, and a matching, crimson metal half-cuirass with the eagle of his Olympian father hung on the wall before him. Paul let Daryl help him remove his current armoring and help him dress in the armor of justice. The general produced a sword gifted to them by Aphrodite herself, sharp enough to cleave marble. A shield formed from a shard of Aegis was bequeathed to him. His final gift was the golden Lasso of Truth. On seeing him ready and with a red cloak pinned around his neck, Daryl was speechless. The man was truly a demigod, a hero of old come to life, and Major Daryl Dixon was losing his heart.

The general led them to the practice field where he himself had been nearly killed by the man he had trained and fought beside for nearly three millennia. Daryl looked out and saw his plane, restored and waiting. 

“How?”

“We’re not a barbarian horde,” scoffed the tall commander. “Our scientists and engineers recovered it and rebuilt it under the direction of Hephaestus,” General Symonicus explained as if it were just like saying “good morning.” “However, it runs on sea water now, although fresh will do in a pinch. That’s not a problem is it? The other mixture offended Poseidon.”

“We can’t have that,” Daryl agreed. Symonicus shook his head in affirmation, not catching the jest, which was probably a good thing. The general then turned to Prince Pol and removed his own stylized crown, similar to Paul’s, but more ornate.

“Take this,” said Symonicus. “It has always been worn by the general of our forces, but it is officially part of your armor, and it belongs on the brow of the greatest of us.” He placed the armored circlet upon his prince’s head and stepped back to look at him with a satisfied sigh.

“General—“ Pol’s face scrunched and the tears came. “Uncle, I—“ 

Symonicus laughed and took the beautiful demigod’s face in his big hands. “You have slain a hydra in single combat not an hour hence, and leaving home for the first time draws tears. You know how to come home. We will _always_ be here. Your father and I will be laying waste to Eris’ forces at the Infernal Door, Jaered will be doting upon him, Daleon will be finding something else to complain about, and _finally_ , Acteon may realize that sweet, beautiful Crixius has loved him from afar like a moon-eyed calf for the last six hundred years!” 

Pol laughed back and clasped his uncle’s forearms. “I love you!”

“ _That_ is why you will win,” Symonicus stated as clearly as if it were the secret answer to all the mysteries in the universe. “Now go, and claim our first victory in the New Lands at the major’s side. Soon, you two will be back, and he’ll be at yours.”

Pol kissed his uncle’s cheeks and turned. 

“General, I’ll do everything—“ Daryl said quietly.

“There is no one here who can dispute that. You have friends here, Major Daryl Dixon. Return to us. Now go, and be great!” He saluted the man. Daryl returned it and nodded, then dashed back to Pol to help him get into the Mustang fighter plane.

The instruments checked, the plane started, and Daryl found he enjoyed Pol’s cry of joy at the launch from the cliff’s edge, diving down toward the ocean, and pulling up to soar out beyond the shimmering barrier of obscurity.


	3. Coming to the New Lands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Dixon takes Prince Pol to the New Lands where they make new friends and face old enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poists may take a little longer now that I have started a new degree program. Kudo are appreciated, but comments give me LIFE!!! Thanks, and happy reading!!! (Why do I have 3 multi-chapter fanfics???)

The radio blared out, _“Attention unidentified aircraft! Adjust your course and come to one-one-eight. You are flying into restricted air space. Identify yourself and state your intentions or you will be shot down! Repeat: You are entering restricted air space—“_

“Camp Springs, this is ‘Orphan Annie’ on final approach. Send word to ‘Daddy Warbucks’; let him know I have a dinner guest he’ll want to meet.” 

There was a long moment. The handsome pilot hoped his beautiful prince was comfortable. Perhaps he was sleeping soundly in the new seat of the expanded cockpit just behind the pilot’s own. How they had done that boggled the mind completely seeing as the dimensions of the plane didn’t appear to have been altered. The prince’s explanation? _Simple: Hephaestus guided their hands._ He could feel the perfect man’s gentle shrug and loving smile in his voice. The plane handled like a dream. It was faster, more responsive, and much, much quieter. If the gauges were correct, he still had nearly ninety percent of his fuel, and he hadn’t even had to touch the new spare tanks. It had taken the major a few minutes to get a better feel for the Mustang. He could get very spoiled in this thing. 

Two interceptors came into view, taking positions on each side of his plane. 

_Escorts or executioners?_

One thing that the Gargarean master artisans had not replaced was the ordinance. He only had a few rounds at best and was in no shape for a fight, especially one in which he was forced to defend himself against patriots who were following the right orders. He felt the warm hand reach around to brush the backs of fingers against the stubble on his cheek. He turned to kiss them before they disappeared again. Daryl’s confidence had increased ever since they had seen the coastline. Feeling Pol’s close support, he knew the two could take on the world. They may actually have to do so. Daryl’s niggling worry about acceptance of the two of them being together was eroding slowly but surely. Let them think whatever they want. He did his job, loved his country, and had found someone who completed him. He was certainly not ashamed of his glorious prince.

“’Orphan Annie!’” came General Blake’s cry. “Dixon, is that really you, son?”

“Yes, sir! Sorry about the delay, Governor, but I got here as fast as I could!” Daryl replied into the microphone, a grin breaking across his features. “And, General? I have some pretty impressive company you’re gonna wanna meet.”

“Get on down here, son!” came the general’s deep drawl. “I’ll see you on the field! Stand by for approach orders. Welcome home!”

“’Orphan Annie,’ you are cleared for final approach. Adjust heading to one-two-niner and lower to fifteen hundred feet. You are cleared for immediate landing on Runway One.”

The escort planes accelerated to lead Daryl’s P-51 down. The runway came into view as they soared down over Chesapeake Bay. Daryl reduced their speed and gently lowered the flaps. The landing gear descended and locked into place. Less than two minutes later, the plane’s wheels touched down, and they taxied along to meet a contingent gathering near the large hangar bays next to the control tower.

Daryl stop the plane and cut the engine. Three white jeeps with the US Army Air Forces logo sat idling as General Phillip “The Governor” Blake stepped out onto the tarmac with two MPs at his side, both carrying machine guns. Two flight crew members came running over and hooked a ladder to the plane’s side. One climbed up and assisted with opening the canopy. The look on his face was priceless as he stared slack-jawed at the interior of the cockpit.

“Here we go,” Daryl whispered back. He hoped Pol could feel the sly smile in his voice. 

“I’m ready,” came the reply. 

Daryl released the latches of his safety restraints, now made of some type of leather, stood up, climbed out, and reached back in to release a lever and slide his seat forward. Pol stood to a crouch, slipped carefully over the side of the plane and dropped gracefully to the ground before Daryl had even made it off the final step of the ladder. When Daryl looked over, he couldn’t help but smile back at his wondrous prince, clad in the Armor of Justice, his new circlet shining and his crimson cloak flowing in the breeze. Prince Pol started to lean in to him. The readying of weapons breaking the moment between them.

In a flash, Pol was between the MPs and Daryl, his arms were crossed in front of him in the same stance in which he’d begun the final round of the contest. 

“Wait!” Daryl cried. “Hold your fire! He’s with me!”

“Lower your weapons!” roared the general. The soldiers obeyed.

Daryl placed his hands on his prince’s marvelous shoulders, squeezed lovingly, and leaned in, saying, “It’s okay. They just weren’t expecting you to jump out like that.”

Pol stood and glanced back at Daryl, then nodded his understanding before turning back to the general and company. Daryl came forward, took Pol’s hand, and guided him over to make introductions. 

“Prince Pol of Thessalios,” Daryl said. Pol looked over at him, squeezed his hand slightly, and nodded. Daryl could feel the man’s adoration. “I present to you General Phillip Blake, or as he is more affectionately known, ‘The Governor.’ General Blake, this is His Royal Highness, Prince Apollonius, son of Negamemnon, High King of the Gargarean Nation,” he continued, adding, “and Father Zeus, King of Olympus.” Pol smiled sweetly, and Daryl knew he’d gotten the titles right. 

“Your Highness?” the general started, reaching out a hand to shake and nodding. Pol reached in and clasped the general’s forearm, drew him in and kissed his cheeks. “Oh---uh?” the general said, obviously a bit flustered, but smiling politely. “Welcome to the United States.”

“Thank you, Governor General,” said Pol. General Blake glanced at the major but said nothing. “At the behest of my fathers I am here as an emissary and an observer that I may advise my King concerning the War of Many Nations which plagues you here in the New Lands. Based on these observations, the Gargarean Nation will determine their course of action in response to the threat of Eris, daughter of the Titans Discord and Cacophony, and the goddess of strife and division, and her devotees. Know well that it is through her machinations that this level of death and destruction has arisen. I am here to oppose her in fulfillment of the mission of my people.”

“I see,” said the general. “Well, we will take all the help we can get, Prince Pol.”

“The major has been very convincing about the Allied powers and their opposition to the inhumane practices of the Axis nations,” Pol continued. “The Power of Unity has been abandoned and lost to the peoples of the New Lands. They’ve been made to fear and revile open love between men. I come to alleviate their ignorance and to show them that great things are accomplished through knowing the Unity of Men.”

The general appeared somewhat puzzled, but Pol just shook the man’s forearm again and released it. “Major, you two will need to be debriefed immediately. Let’s get to it.”

\----

“Daryl,” General Blake started. “I’m at a loss for words. What’s this young man talking about? Where exactly is he from, and why is he dressed like some kind of gladiator? Is that sword real?” The tall man with the eye-patch shook his head, realizing that his questions where firing away at his best operative like a machine gun. Finally he smiled and placed a fatherly hand on the major’s shoulder. “Son, it’s good to have you back! Major Grimes will be thrilled to know you’re alive, and he won’t have to get Dr Peletier out all by himself.”

“Good to be back, sir,” Daryl said. “As for Prince Pol, he’s for real. His home is an uncharted island. Instruments barely function there. There’s a barrier. You can’t see the place until you’re practically up on it.” Daryl poured himself a cup of coffee from the side table and took a sip. “You up on your ancient mythology?”

“Can’t say that I’m an expert, but I study the classics in high school and college.” The general sat down on the edge of his desk as he listened intently. 

“Remember the Amazons? An ancient race of warrior women, all living together on an island?”

“Sure,” Blake answered. “Hold on a second, son. You telling me he’s the son of an _Amazon_?”

“No, sir. Just the opposite,” explained Daryl. “The Gargareans were their male counterparts. He’s from an all-male society of the most athletic and well-trained soldiers you’ve ever seen. He’s the son of a real, live warrior-king...and the king of the gods. I'm telling you, Governor, it’s like the whole place had stepped straight out of a Greek myth.”

“Like the Spartans at Thermopylae,” Blake surmised. “And what about the Amazons?”

“Betrayed and wiped out by Heracles millennia ago,” Daryl explained. “These men live under the blessings of _literal_ gods. They are smart, strong, and very advanced, yet they live a simple existence, bound to protecting mankind, or the New Lands from the terrors of the ancient world.”

“You pulling my leg, Major?”

“No, sir,” Daryl answered, serious as a heart attack. “Good thing you’re sitting, because there’s more. Prince Pol may look like Jesus Christ, but he’s actually older.”

The general blinked in disbelief. “How is that possible?’

“The blessings of his homeland, and the power of the gods,” answered Daryl. “I know you’re skeptical. Believe me, Governor, I thought I had lost my marbles last week when I came face to face with an actual minotaur the day he found me.”

“Maybe you better start at the beginning,” said Blake.

Two hours later, General Phillip Blake stood with Major Dixon, observing Prince Pol through a two-way mirrored glass as he was being questioned.

\----

“So, you are the son of a king from an all-male society,” clarified the female officer, sitting on the table next to him with her legs crossed in the smart tan skirt. When the Prince had seen her, he’d had tons of questions. 

_A real woman. And, she’s a soldier!_

Something about her was off, though. Perhaps it was merely his disappointment that she seemed relegated to duties that would keep her away from actual combat. In any case, he could tell that Lieutenant Margaret Greene was trying to get certain information from him. She hadn’t gotten much by sitting across from him. Now, she was closer, perhaps so she could get a better look at him, or perhaps it was to let him know of her interest by showing her legs and leaning closer, her breasts evident in the tight tan shirt. Her wiles weren’t working.

The prince sighed and looked back skeptically, “You’re testing me to see if I change my answers. You think I’m hiding something.”

Daryl watched as Maggie tried the logic problem. He huffed to himself, and Blake noticed.

“I simply find it difficult to believe that you grew up on an island of all men, with no mother,” said Maggie. “I mean, is there a queen?”

“No, Lieutenant. The Gargarean Nation is all male. Amazons were female, and their Queen was Hippolyta. _They_ were our sisters, wives, and mothers, but they’re no more,” Pol said sadly. “I might have been her son once, before Eris seduced Heracles and convinced him to destroy them so she could lock their souls away.”

“Well then, who was your mother?” Her green eyes sparkled, counting her victory before it was assured.

“My _fathers_ are Negamemnon and Zeus. The King of Olympus made love with my earthly father and bore me. You, Lieutenant, are the first newlander woman I have ever met. I had no mother, but I have an uncle, and Jaered, my father’s consort. Jaered loves me like his own son. He taught me my letters, how to write and sing, the science of agriculture, how to use a sling. He even gave me his copies of the sacred volumes on the pleasures of intimacy and the Unity of Men.”

“Hold on,” she interrupted. “Are you telling me your father is a homosexual? That homosexuality is openly practiced where you come from?”

“I don’t know quite what you mean by that. His lover and consort is another man, a _great_ man, and his prowess would cower the finest soldiers on this installation!” Pol caught the heat in his voice and calmed himself. “My apologies, Lieutenant. I realize it is difficult for you to accept. Eris has poisoned the very air of the New Lands. She has convinced the New Lands that the Unity of Men is shameful, a disease of the mind. My father and Jaered have been together since Queen Hippolyta was lost nearly three-thousand years ago,” Pol smiled. “But love and affection between men is commonplace in our society; in fact, it is highly prized as the ultimate state of a soldier. You are the ones who have lost the Power of Unity, and she wants it that way.”

She appeared to be thinking about that. “Who? Eris?” Maggie clarified. “The goddess of strife?

“Precisely. If she keeps you from it, you’re not a threat to her, and she can continue to subjugate you to her will until you obliterate yourselves,” Pol said, as if that answered every question in the universe. “Now, I have answered enough for the time being, and I wish to see my beloved.” He rose and headed for the door. The MP inside moved to block his way.

“Your _beloved_? Who? You mean, Major _Dixon_?” The lieutenant’s eyes went wide. Prince Pol turned back, merely nodded, and smiled as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Behind the glass, Blake looked over at Daryl. The major had a satisfied smile on his face, and the general could tell his best operative was a million miles away on a tropical shore with the wonder he was watching through the glass right now. “Son, I know we’ve asked you to do some things in the line of duty that are truly unspeakable, things that may come contrary to people’s values, but—“

“You gonna put me in front of a firing squad, or make me break rocks for the rest of my life because I fell in love with a beautiful prince from a magical island?” Major Dixon shook his head, his voice low and deadly. “I ain’t ashamed of that.”

General Blake looked down for a moment, nodded his head, and sighed. “Can you two keep this thing between you under wraps for now?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered professionally. “As for him, I can only ask, but I promise to do my best convincing. You’d better let me go get him if you don’t want that MP in the infirmary.” Blake nodded in agreement as he thought.

“Daryl!” Blake interjected, thought striking. “House him off-base. Use one of the safe-houses.”

Daryl nodded and hurried out to knock on the door of the adjacent room and open it. The guard moved over to let him in. The soft smile from his prince made Daryl’s heart start to pound in his chest.

“Hi!” Daryl nodded to Maggie, then turned to Pol. “Hey there.”

“’Hey’ yourself,” Pol bantered. He’d been pleased to learn a new slang word that rhymed in this language with the food of herding animals.

“Major,” Lt Greene acknowledged. She stood up from the table, looked back at the MP, and ordered, “Shoot them!” Her voice had become harsh and commanding. The soldier drew his sidearm at the same time as the lieutenant. Her eyes were glowing a dull yellow, a hellish miasma wafting up from them.

Before Daryl could yell, his prince had him pressed behind his back and against the corner of the room. Pol’s motions were faster than lightning. Shots rang out, impacts resounded against the bracers and greaves, and bullets clattered to the floor. The last two took Daryl be surprise as the prince reflected them back at the guns from which they were fired, disarming both assailants. Pol grabbed the officer by the wrist and slung him against the far wall with a thud. 

Lt Greene touched the table and it fell apart, decaying almost instantaneously. When she spoke, her voice was layered with another, a sinister and malevolent presence that turned even Pol’s blood cold. 

" ** _Another bastard spawn of Zeus come to bring me to heel_** ,” the goddess spat, the sneer on her face filled with hate. “ ** _Like the others, you will fail. I know your weakness. Why do you not see that conflict lies in all things? It is the ultimate truth of existence.”_ **

“No! Your time is over, Eris!” yelled Prince Pol.

" ** _You cannot see the truth. The Gargareans have blinded you as well. Poor little bird. Join with me, as did Heracles. We will open the gates of Tartarus, destroy this world, and build it anew. Can you not see the possibilities?_ ** "

“Enough questions!” Pol countered. “Time for the _truth_!” 

The lasso flew forth, flaring to life in the brilliance of molten gold, encircling the lieutenant. Eris screamed, and everyone fell to their knees as the wall behind her exploded outward. Daryl raised his weapon, but Pol cried out. “No! She’ll leave and cause you to kill the lieutenant!”

Eris shrieked. Pol knew she’d been counting on Daryl trying something to stop her. 

“The lasso compels you to obey!” the prince commanded. “Release her!” The goddess screamed. Maggie’s body convulsed. The skin stretched where the dark goddess writhed from within searing and blistering where the rope held her fast. Without warning, the lieutenant vomited forth a black cloud of roiling vapor, sickly green and yellow light was hidden within; Maggie collapsed to the floor. The vapor streaked out the open wall and across the air field. 

Pol and Daryl were over to Maggie in a flash. She’d been left alive, but comatose. The prince stood and peered to look for traces of the hate-filled deity. 

Gen Blake entered the room with two more MPs, the first of which confirmed that the officer against the wall was simply knocked unconscious. They took a moment to assess what had actually happened. 

Seeing a shadow darken the gaping opening in the wall, Pol shot like a streak out on the grassy turf, reached up, and, with a grunt that became a yell, caught the massive M4 Sherman tank just before it could come flying into the room. Daryl, Gen Blake, and the conscious military policemen were frozen in sheer awe as they watched the prince’s fingers dent and press into the plate armoring that groaned back before he lowered the tank gently to the ground. Pol turned back and quirked his head at Daryl with a smile. 

“She’s a sore loser,” Pol quipped.

“ _My god_!” Gen blake exclaimed. “He’s the eigth wonder of the world!”

“No,” Daryl said, his eyes never leaving his love’s. “He’s _The_ Wonder, sir.”

“I hope that can be repaired,” Pol said, patting the bent plate metal on the side of the tank. 

“No worries, your Highness, and thanks a ton—or rather, about thirteen and a half tons,” answered the general, tilting his head and arching an eyebrow in utter astonishment.

The prince stepped back inside and picked up the lieutenant, carrying her as if she weighed nothing. Compared to a tank, she didn’t. The lasso around her arms and torso was no longer glowing. He looked the general in the eye and answered. 

Blake paced for a moment, getting rid of some of his nervous excitement. Finally he asked, “What in blue _fuck_ was that?”

“ _That_ , General Blake, was an aspect of the goddess Eris and the reason I am here.” Prince Pol looked his beautiful spy. “She knew we were coming.” 

Daryl looked back as he stood up. He knew what they were both thinking. 

_The assassin back on the island._

Pol nodded and whispered to him. “She may have overwhelmed the spirit of someone back home, or worse, she has willing followers there. I must warn my father.”

Daryl did not like the sound of that. 

The prince and the pilot walked along behind Gen Blake as more medical and security personnel escorted them to the infirmary. He lay the lieutenant down on one of the small beds as the newlander doctors and nurses came to examine her and began removing her uniform, scorched through by the lasso and stained by the vile, greasy vapor that had been Eris’ physical being.

“Please,” the prince insisted. “Let me help her. It’s not just her body.”

Daryl and Phillip looked back at him, clearly not understanding. The doctors gave a dismissive sniff and continued their work, one now filling a syringe with what Daryl guessed to be a powerful stimulant. 

“What do you mean ‘not just her body?’” Daryl asked.

“Her spirit has been displaced,” the prince explained patiently. “It has not been allowed to meet its destiny, yet it cannot return to her. There are rules even Eris must obey, at least while my divine uncle rules the Underworld. Her spirit cannot find its way back on its own. Healing her body and her essence will allow her soul to return to its proper place. Right now it’s in pain, like skin that has been abraded.”

“What can you do?” asked Gen Blake. 

Prince Pol turned to the physicians and approached the bedside. The medical staff backed off at the general’s stern nod. Maggie lay lifeless, her eyes leeched of color, a living corpse. The prince knelt down beside her and placed one hand on her brow, the other over her heart. 

“Mercy of the Sun-Rider be upon you,” Pol whispered. “Let this light dwell within your troubled heart.” 

A warm, golden light glowed between the prince’s hands and the lieutenant’s skin. The young woman’s body took a slow, deep breath. Her skin began to glow and shine from within. Daryl and Phillip watched, utterly taken aback. 

“Good god in heaven,” the Governor murmured aloud.

“Wrong number,” Daryl countered as he watched the woman’s burned flesh flake and sublimate, leaving perfect, new skin beneath. 

Maggie’s eyes fluttered, and she sat bolt upright, inhaling sharply and looking around at everyone. Pol removed his hands, and she turned to him. “You! I was so lost, so scared! It was like the harder I searched, the more lost I was,” she said. She looked at Pol, her eyes full of tears. “And then there was a way back. I thought I was dead.” Her chin trembled; clearly the ordeal had shaken her to the core.

“No,” the prince explained. “It was much, much worse. Had you not been found, you would have been condemned to a terrible existence.” Pol smiled at her and stroked her hair. “But thanks to the Light of Apollo, you’re back where you belong, Lieutenant.”

“Maggie,” Daryl started. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was on my way to the Interrogation Room when everything went dark and cold,” she said, trying to recall every detail. “There was a hideous voice, like the tines of a rake scraping over a sidewalk but echoing from every wall. I don’t mind admitting I almost peed on myself. Beg pardon, sir.”

“As you were, Lieutenant,” Gen Blake eased.

Pol looked at Maggie and she leaned over and hugged him. “Thank you!”

“You are welcome, Lieutenant Maggie Greene,” Pol reassured. He petted her head and let her be comforted as long as she needed. After a few moments, she broke away and accepted some water from one of the nurses. “When you are ready, I will answer _your_ questions. Again,” the prince said, standing with a knowing smile. 

“I can ask them now,” Maggie said, her excitement palpable. She looked at the general and Maj Dixon. “Really,” she insisted.

“You two go ahead. Then you can join us for a late lunch,” suggested Daryl, looking to Pol who immediately agreed.

\----

“That’s _fascinating_! It’s like you were raised by Alexander the Great and Hephaestion!” Maggie exclaimed. 

Pol smiled to himself as he tried on what seemed like the ninetieth outfit in the haberdashery. “Are you sure this clothing is necessary, Lieutenant?” 

Maggie looked over at Daryl. The big, handsome spy quirked his head and gave a half-smile. Seeing she was getting no help from her superior, she sighed and replied, “Yes, your Highness. We don’t want to attract undue attention.”

Pol drew back the dark green curtain, its hanging rings clacking together on the wooden rod. When he stepped out, he wore a white shirt with a brown vest and matching trousers. He looked dazzling, his long hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Maggie rose to her feet, her smile running from ear to ear. 

“You look spiffy!” she said to Pol as she stepped over turned the beautiful man toward the mirror. Looking over her shoulder to Daryl she added, “Don’t you think so, sir?”

Pol checked his image, looking unsure about Maggie’s choice of descriptor, then turned back to face Daryl. “Always,” the pilot replied softly, finding his voice. 

“Where are your things?” Lt Greene asked, peeking into the changing room. 

“I’m wearing them,” Pol stated simply.

“No,” Maggie clarified. “Where’s your armor and the sword and shield? How are you hiding a shield under your shirt?” The clothes fit well. There were no bulges or wrinkles to give away anything underneath—save for the one Daryl had come to enjoy the most.

Pol smiled back and arched an eyebrow as he glanced over to Daryl.

“Forged by Hephaestus,” Daryl surmised, smiling to himself.

Pol’s brilliant smiled melted his heart, but the confused look on Maggie’s face meant that there was more explaining to do. On the way out, Maggie had suggested a pair of faux glasses to further disguise the prince, but Pol politely declined. 

After introducing Pol to the owner of _Aaron’s on Alexandria_ —who happened to be a close friend of Daryl’s—and to spaghetti and meatballs—which Pol thoroughly enjoyed—they took a leisurely walk through Alexandria, and both of the men had fun answering the millionth or so question from Maggie—some so direct they made Daryl blush. Later, the two men parted ways with the young lieutenant at the duplex apartment she rented less than a mile from the main base. Pol’s reflections on Maggie were running a mile a minute and left a smile on his beloved spy’s handsome face.

“She’s incredible!” Pol said. “I could never have imagined knowing a _real_ mortal woman. She’s a beauty as well! If she were on Thessalios, my father would be introducing her to every eligible man, my uncle would be testing her martial skills, Jaered would be trying to feed her and show her everything of interest, Daleon would be beside himself just fussing over her and asking her so many questions—“

“Do you trust Daleon?” Daryl had stopped walking. His face was dead serious.

Pol carefully considered and nodded, then sighed and smiled. “Daleon is wise and thoughtful,” said Pol. “He is also highly skilled with the bow and spear, but he does _not_ deal in treachery, and he is _no_ sycophant. He is in his position not through guile nor political platitudes; rather, he is there because he is the voice of clarity that does not always agree.”

Daryl looked skeptical. “Why would your father have someone like him around him?”

“Because if everyone simply agreed and there was never contention or debate, we might miss a vital point that should be considered and given value,” Pol explained. “They may not always like everything the other does, but they respect each other, and deep down, we care about Daleon and know that he has always had the good of the Gargarean Nation in his heart. We are his only family, and he is ours.” 

Daryl stepped closer, shaking his head. “Hey, I don’t mean to upset you by asking—“ The major’s words were cut off by the kiss Pol gave him. 

“You don’t have to apologize. After all, it is a possibility we must consider,” Pol said, one hand lovingly stroking down Daryl’s face and resting at his shoulder. “Eris can possess a person, but they would have to have a reason to let her in. Some emotion that acted as a doorway for her entry.”

“Such as?” Daryl asked, intrigued.

“Negative emotions are her keys,” Pol said. “Jealousy, discouragement, pride, rage, greed.”

“The vices!” Daryl concluded.

“The what?” Pol looked confused.

“Pride, wrath, envy, sloth, greed, lust, gluttony. They’re spoken about in certain religious doctrines—“ Daryl stopped abruptly and looked back over his shoulder when the black and white police car rolled up beside them with its red lights flashing, and two officers stepped out. The driver was shorter and stocky. The other was tall and imposing, with a dominant brow and a scowl on his face. 

Pol presumed that the deep lines in his face had been etched there over years of carrying such an expression. 

Daryl turned to face them. “Good evening, officers,” he nodded. “Is there a problem?”

“That remains to be seen. Identification?” the portly policeman snapped. 

“Of course,” replied the spy, pulling out his wallet and retrieving his military identification card. The major handed the card over to the larger policeman; the big man took it and passed it straight over to his partner without even a glance, never taking his eyes off of Daryl and Pol. Daryl noticed that both men had their police batons in hand. 

“Major Daryl Dixon, Army Air Forces,” the stocky officer read aloud. He looked up at the prince. “And you?”

“This man is a guest of the War Department,” answered the major. “The prince has diplomatic immunity. Call it in to Gen Phillip Blake’s office over at the base if you like.”

The two officers looked at each other then back at the duo before them. The stocky officer answered. “I got a better idea.” He drew his side arm. “Step into that alley,” he ordered, waving them along with the pistol. Pol tilted his head, looking down at the barrel of the gun. The man saw it and added, “And don’t get any funny ideas. At least no more than those you’ve already got.”

They walked ahead of the officers to where the alley’s crossed together behind four buildings. An old man sat outside scrubbing oysters in two buckets. 

“Scram!” yelled the tall officer. The man dropped his brush, grabbed the buckets, and high-tailed it into the backdoor of a restaurant, slamming it shut behind him. 

“So what’ve we got here, Walt?” asked the short officer. 

“Looks like a couple of queers to me, Jack,” answered the tall officer, his scowl giving over to hatred.

“ _Prince my ass_!" said the portly officer. “More like a couple of queens kissing each other bold as brass right out on the sidewalk in broad daylight. And you, a soldier. They’re gonna throw you in a hole and fill it with concrete, _Major_. Makes me sick to my goddamn stomach.” He spat at Daryl’s shoes.

“Do it, Jack,” the big man said, grinning malevolently, his contemptuous visage now complete. “Shoot the little one. We can say he was a spy. He’s got no papers. Judge Toombs and the DA will see it our way anyhow. This just made it more convenient. Then the big guy gets the stick.” He slapped the baton in his palm threateningly.

“You two married?” asked the short officer. “’Cause it’s about to be that ‘death do us part’ moment.”

“You really don’t wanna do that,” Daryl warned.

The two crooked cops smirked and shared a side glance before the big one, Walt, answered, “Actually, yeah, Major. We really _do_.” He nodded to Jack as he started to advance on Daryl.

“So long, faggot,” Jack said, aiming at Pol and squeezing the trigger twice just to be sure.

The shots rang out, loud and echoing in the alley. The tell-tale clatter of blunted bullets hitting the pavement was a relief to Daryl’s ringing ears. He grabbed the tall man’s arm in mid-swing, used Walt’s own momentum against him, and flipped him over to land hard on his back, disarming him in the process. Jack squeezed the trigger as fast as he could, four shots flying, two missing, one stopped in flight, and the last shot returning right back to strike the weapon from his hand. 

With the baton now in his right hand, Daryl struck Jack across the bridge of the nose, laying him out cold. Walt was still groaning on the ground, trying to grab for his gun when a curving streak of molten gold illuminated the alley as it flew over and snagged the gun, snatching it from his grasp. Pol handed the pistol to Daryl. As the man sat up, the lasso flew forth again, and Walt was yanked bodily up off the ground and held by the beautiful man in the brown vest, the officer’s feet dangling helplessly over a foot off the ground. The prince stared at the man, and his brilliant, icy blue eyes were not amused. 

“You _will_ tell me the truth,” Pol commanded. Daryl watched as the man writhed for a moment and struggled uselessly against the power within the cord. “Have you and this man hurt or killed men who love each other?” The lasso flared.

“I— _YES_!” he cried out. “We fire-bombed the gay bar on Sanctuary Road.”

“Eighteen people died in there!” exclaimed Daryl. The fire in his stomach churned as he knew that number had included his friend Aaron’s late lover, Eric. His grip in the pistol tightened.

The man’s confessions went on: murder, assault, extortion, theft. The list went on. They were criminal’s with badges. Daryl went into the nearby restaurant and called the police while Pol revived and questioned the other officer. In the end, he used the lasso to compel them to submit to the arriving officers and to confess their crimes in detail.

After it was over, Pol took a cab with Daryl to the major’s apartment. It was small, sparse, and functional; Pol loved it immediately. The Murphy bed was unexpected, but not unwelcome after the day they’d had. The radio was truly a gift of Hephaestus. They shared a beer and started to undress for bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Pol said, taking off the shirt to reveal the red and gold half-cuirass beneath. He stared at the sleeves. “I got some kind of smudging on the new shirt.”

Daryl looked and recognized the black power marks that had marred the shirt. “The shirt can be replaced,” Daryl said, pulling the prince’s knuckles up to kiss them. “ _You_ can’t be.”

Pol smiled back. “I believe I have put you to added expense as well. I noticed that you use some form of money to pay for things.”

“I’ve got enough,” Daryl assured.

“I can make some arrangements of my own,” Pol assured, handing Daryl several gold coins. “They’re pretty old. Surely someone would trade money for them.” He handed the ancient coins to Daryl. 

“I’ll ask Maggie to help us find someone who won’t swindle us,” Daryl said, wrapping them up in his handkerchief and placing the bundle into his jacket pocket.

“I really like Maggie,” declared Pol. “She’s so vibrant. She would make a formidable Amazon, with the right training and blessings, of course.” He slid his hands around Daryl’s waist and looked into the pilot’s deep blue eyes. 

Daryl huffed a small noise. “I got news for you,” he said, his voice low and soft. He inhaled the scent of his prince’s hair. “She thinks you’re killer-diller too. Said so while you were trying on outfits.”

“Is that good?” asked Pol, looking hopeful.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Daryl said his words but a whisper full of lust. “You’re the cat’s meow.” He drew his magnificent god-of-a-man in and kissed him deeply, delirium pouring through the both of them as they slowly undressed each other. 

Before, Daryl would have turned out the lights and made certain the shades were drawn. Tonight, he couldn’t care who saw. He shuddered as Pol lay him back on the bed, his magnificent hands stroking the evening’s frustrations and tension away from Daryl’s mind and bringing the muscular pilot’s body to life. Daryl could feel Pol’s huge, hard manhood rub against his left thigh; Daryl was just as hard, his sex begging to be freed of the boxer shorts. His handsome hero leaned down to kiss and suck lovingly at the pilot’s chest, nipples, and stomach. Daryl’s breathing became more intense, and his heart was beating like a race horse.

“Seeing you take on those pricks back there,” Daryl murmured. He shuddered as the prince pulled down off the boxers and cast them aside, freeing Daryl’s large, pulsing cock. His foreskin had retracted, and a clear line of pre-come was issuing from the slit. “God, Pol! You made me want you so bad!” 

Pol’s leer was driving Daryl insane. “What my Daryl wants…” said Pol, unbuckling his greaves, Ptyrges, and cuirass, and dropping them to the floor. “He _must_ have.”

From somewhere, Pol had produced a tiny vial, opened it, and poured a drop down on Daryl’s cock. Pol rubbed it up and down Daryl’s huge dick, and instantly it became slick and slippery. Daryl could wait no longer. He sat up, and rolled his beautiful prince over onto his back, lifted Pol’s legs and held them up and apart with his massive arms, and let the prince line the pilot’s swollen phallus to his entrance. 

“Impale me with your spear,” Pol whispered. On Thessalios, Daryl had learned that _sword_ was a common euphemism for cock during sex. But _spear_ was a euphemism for an exceptionally _large_ cock, like his and Pol’s. Daryl had taken to the phrasing immediately. 

He leaned down to find Pol’s delicious, pink lips, kissing the prince as if his life were at stake. Daryl pressed his tongue into Pol’s mouth just as he thrust his hips forward, pushing the wide head of his cock in and past the tight ring of muscle into the glorious, wet warmth within. Pol’s hands found the pilot’s hips and urged him forward. Daryl knew this would be fast and intense. Pol was fucking horned, cock pulsing and rutting up against Daryl’s stomach, his own pre-come making both men slick. 

“If we’re racing, my love,” warned Pol, “You're going to need to hurry!”

They were both sweating and huffing breaths as he rolled Daryl onto his back, straddling him and taking charge, riding his strapping pilot. Daryl sat up, grabbed his prince by the hair, pulling his head back so that he could kiss, nuzzle, and suck at the hero’s neck. The heat in his stomach began to spread lower. 

“I’m so close!” Pol grasped in Daryl’s ear. He reached down, locked his hand around the wrist-thick phallus, and stroked his handsome prince. The resulting cry of delight and beautiful climax was enough to push him over the edge and release deep inside Pol’s loving warmth. Pol slowed down as he helped Daryl ease through the over-sensitivity. They sat locked together on the bed, kissing softly and tasting sweat, skin, and come. Pol eased himself off of his handsome soldier, lifted Daryl up, and took him to the shower. They bathed each other, came back into the other room, turned out the lights, and went fast asleep. 

Just after midnight, Daryl opened his eyes. He’d felt the sheet move up, but the angle was so high that his body reacted to the noticeable change. He looked to see if Pol had gotten up, perhaps for water or to go to the toilet. His magnificent prince was there and as gorgeous and awe-inspiring as ever—and he was _floating_ in mid-air about a foot above the mattress, the sheet dangling down off of his side as he slept peacefully.


	4. Set in Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Pol make a true believer out of Rick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry so long between chapters, but one of my other fanfics took off like a shot. Then, life stepped in. But, please, feel free to comment! They keep me going.

“You can _fly_ ,” the major mused. The light from the streetlamp outside shone through the drawn shades, bathing the room in a faint golden glow. Daryl lay on his stomach with Pol straddling him. His divine prince rubbed at the old wounds, his fingers finding delicate pressure points to relieve strain and sooth old injuries. 

“Now, I know exactly what Hermes meant,” Pol said softly.

“You spoke to one of the gods?”

Daryl felt Pol kiss a long, ugly scar that crossed from the top right of his back to below his left shoulder blade. It made him exhale in contentment.

“Yes, beloved,” Pol whispered. “More precisely, I spoke to many of the gods and mother Hera. I thanked them for the gifts they have given me.” Pol pressed up Daryl’s lumbar with his thumbs, gentle pops bringing relief to his lower back. “They like you, especially my father and uncles.” 

Daryl turned beneath his beautiful prince to lie on his back, his hands stroking gently on Pol’s thighs and hips. “They realize me bringing you here put you and your people in danger?” His own dark blue eyes were full of worry, but Daryl could make out the love and surety in his prince’s misty-blue irises. 

“I have trained for this all my life,” Pol assured, leaning down to kiss Daryl’s lips. “Let me help you sleep.” Daryl’s cock was hard, long and thick, bouncing slightly with his pulse. 

A few weeks ago, Daryl couldn't have dreamed of what those words entailed. Now, he knew that Pol was going to bring him to an intense climax before letting his pilot fall into a deep slumber. Daryl was actually happy that he had learned to appreciate his prominent arousal as Pol assured him it was an undeniable compliment of the highest order. Pol’s own impressive prominence, a testament his attraction to Daryl's spirit, virility, and physical beauty, would also be satisfied.

“Let me show you what it’s like,” Pol whispered. 

Later, with the flashes of heat lightning illuminating his glorious prince’s ecstatic countenance, Major Daryl Dixon climaxed, high above the clouds in the arms of his magnificent lover. Rick would never believe this.

\----

The streets of London were polarized: those places hit during the bombing runs were virtually deserted while the intact areas teamed with chaotic overflow. 

“Your friend is here?” asked Pol as they stepped from the cab.

“Yes,” Daryl answered. “Rick’s been in France, and according to Magge and the Governor, he’s found Dr Peletier. She’s being moved to a facility outside of Berlin to continue research on the atomic bomb.”

“Why would she willingly do that?” Pol asked, stepping aside for an older woman to cross in front of him toward a fruit stand.

“She wouldn’t,” Daryl explained. “But Rick says they have her daughter. They killed her husband right in front of the both of them to make sure she understands that they won't hesitate to kill the girl.”

“We have to stop them,” Pol stated. “Take me there.”

“Hold on,” Daryl said, reaching back to take his prince’s hand. Pol smiled back. “I’m gonna need your help, but we have to do things a little differently.”

Pol looked at him askance. 

“Spy,” Daryl said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Very well,” Pol acquiesced. “But know this: Eris is behind all of this. She schemes and manipulates from the lowest to the greatest. Somewhere, she has promised great power, something that would tempt even the most stalwart on either side of this war, and she will tempt both sides, that way there is conflict over the prize.”

“Like a weapon?” Daryl said, squinting. 

Pol nodded. “Or worse.”

“That can’t be good,” Daryl said, shaking his head, then looking at the street signs. “Okay. We need to head to the King’s Head Tavern on Fleet Street.”

“A baby!” cried Pol, slipping from Daryl’s hand and running toward a woman with an infant bundled in her arms.

Daryl dashed after him, catching up only after Pol had scared the poor mother. “Sorry, ma’am. He’s harmless,” Daryl reassured. The lady nodded and smiled kindly. 

“She’s _so_ little!” he declared. Daryl couldn’t help but swallow as he saw the tears in his prince’s eyes. The beautiful man had never encountered an infant before. 

The doors to the nearby building opened and children filed out. Daryl read the brass placard that noted the school name. 

“Children,” Pol uttered softly, a look of absolute marvel on his features and tears of delight in his eyes. Daryl pulled him back from the throng as the boys and girls made their way out to waiting parents and caretakers. 

After they passed, and the couple waved goodbye to the woman with the baby who had her son’s hand as they walked away, presumably to their home, Daryl watched as Pol wiped his eyes and his face grew dark and serious.

“This is what Eris denied my people,” Pol stated, his voice hard. “She corrupted my brother, Heracles, and destroyed our Amazon mothers. There is no punishment too vile, no cell too desolate in all of Tartarus for her.”

Daryl took him in his arms and held him close to his broad chest. He felt Pol’s tension bleed away. A pair of gentlemen in tweed overcoats walked past, looking at them with disdain and muttering something about fairies.

“Fuck off,” Daryl snarled. The men wasted no time making distance between themselves and the pilot. 

Pol looked up. “We have a job to do.”

Glancing to his left, Daryl spied a vendor. “First things first,” the soldier said, taking his prince by the hand and leading him over to the man who was rolling sweet waffle cones. 

“Two chocolate, please,” Daryl said, taking out some coins to pay. 

Pol watched in fascination as the man scooped what appeared to be a large, sticky mound of cold, brown clay into the cones and hand one to each of them. Daryl inclined his head at the cone in Pol’s hand. Then, he tried his own. He watched as Pol tentatively smelled the cone, and took a taste using his lips as he'd just seen Daryl do. Watching the transformation from serious scowl to delight brought the handsome soldier no small amount of pleasure.

“You like it?”

“It’s wonderful!” Pol cried. “What is it?”

“Chocolate ice cream cone,” Daryl explained. “Glad you like it.”

“I _love_ it,” Pol replied, he lean over and kissed Daryl. Then he turned to the proprietor who was wide-eyed at the display of affection. “You should be very proud of this!”

The man simply nodded back and gave his stuttered thanks. Daryl led Pol onward into the heart of London to meet their contact and make their way into Occupied France. 

\----

After Daryl mentioned Chaucer and Marlowe to the barkeep, they were led upstairs to a private box seat overlooking the stage in the adjoining King’s Head Theatre. Stepping from the darkened corner, a bottle of Kentucky bourbon in hand, was a rather tall man; he was lean and strong and just beginning to show gray in the stubble on his cheeks and at the temples. 

Daryl huffed a laugh, stalked over and hugged the man fiercely. “Be more careful, you shithead. The bastards almost got you last time.” The man shook his head back at Daryl.

“I want you to meet someone,” Daryl said, turning back to Pol. “Pol, this is Major Rick Grimes. He’s a damn fine soldier and my best friend. Rick, this is Prince Pol of Thessalios.” 

Rick reached out to shake Pol’s hand. The tall man, took Pol in and tilted his head a bit. “So you’re the one the Governor calls ‘The Wonder?’”

“I am,” Pol replied, shaking Rick’s hand.

Rick nodded, “Ah, okay. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Major, I respectfully request that you take me to where they are holding Dr Peletier’s daughter,” Pol said. 

Rick looked incredulous. “I’m afraid it won’t be that simple. They have the loved ones of several of the people forced to work at the facility. Plus, there’s an entire battalion surrounding the facility, including a Panzer tank squadron.”

Rick huffed a breath of disbelief and looked at Daryl. The soldier only shrugged back with a crooked smile.

“Leave that to me,” Pol stated. "You two get in, and steal away the scientists and their families.”

\----

“Is it true?” Rick asked gently. “Are you and Pol— _together_? That way?”

Daryl spit, then pulled out a cigarette, tapped it on his silver case, and lit it. He exhaled through his nose and glared back at the man who was like his own flesh and blood.

“I’m happy you found someone,” Rick said. “But you know that’s gonna be rough. The Governor can’t protect you from the regulations forever. What are you gonna do after you get out?”

“I’m going with him,” Daryl answered honestly. “Wherever he goes.” He took another drag of his smoke. “We may go back to his home.” He looked over at Rick. The man had that knowing, irritating smile on his mug. “What?”

Rick shook cleared his face and shook his head. “Nothing. Just wondering what your wedding dress might look like.” 

“Fuck off!” Daryl griped. 

“Hey, now,” Rick said, standing and stepping over to place a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You know I’m just bustin’ your chops. You better get used to that. Some folks aren’t gonna be too kind.”

“I got a thick enough hide, thanks to my Pa,” Daryl muttered. Then he turned to face his friend, his anger evident. “And besides, why is it that we should have to hide and be ashamed? Why can’t the world just let us be? We ain’t hurtin’ them none. Pol says that we’ve all forgotten the Unity of Men. Great nations like Sparta, leaders like Alexander. Says Eris has been poisoning everyone’s way of thinking for hundreds of years, waiting until we are mistrusting and weak without each other.”

“You believe in this goddess?” Rick asked. “The whole thing sounds like mass hypnosis or ESP or alpha rays or something.”

“It’s _real_ ,” Daryl said, dropping his cigarette and stepping on the butt. “ _He_ is real. You just wait and see.” He turned to go, but stopped and spoke back to Rick, not wanting to leave angry. In this war, it was too easy to die. “I love him. He sees me like no one ever has, all of me.” He turned back to see Rick listening, taking it all in. “He’s strong, brave, loving, kind. He can fly too.” Rick tilted his head skeptically, but Daryl went on. “We fucked on top of a cloud. Watching each other’s face change when we came. Seeing it only in the flashes from the heat lightning below us.” He could see Rick was still not sure. “I won’t say I told ya so.”

\----

“My god in heaven!” the tall man exclaimed in complete disbelief. 

“The gods you should be thanking are from Mount Olympus,” countered the handsome spy, smirking over at his friend in the foxhole beside him and turning back to watch his beloved prince in action.

“When the Governor told me about this guy—hell, even when I saw the film footage. I thought you two were up to some twisted practical joke. What in god’s name?”

Major Rick Grimes looked out over what had once been lush and verdant farmland of western France, now a ravaged and scarred battlefield. Through the smoke and fire he could not believe his eyes as the Gargarean prince lay waste to the enemy troops. 

The Panzer tank division fired its primary cannon. Shells exploded instantly against Pol’s shield. The look Pol gave over the edge of his shield belied his amusement. A streak of brilliant white light flew forth as the divine spear shot down the barrel of the center tank, the explosive concussion taking out the two flanking war machines. In a single leap, Pol landed on top of the last tank, bent forward, and gripped the metal of the turret. There was an ear-splitting scream of tortured metal accompanied by the popping outcries of rivets as the demigod sheared the swivel turret clean off and slung it into the final Panzer, stopping it completely. Two of the crew tried to fire on him only to watch their point-blank shots be stopped by faster-than-lighting moves, resulting in the sparking of the lead shots against the silvery andronium bracers. The enemy soldiers were even more dumbfounded than Rick.

Daryl tore up from the foxhole where he and Rick had been watching. Rick was right at his side, rifles cutting down the remaining enemy forces. 

“We don’t have long!” yeller Rick. “They’ve probably already called for reinforcements!”

Pol nodded to convey his understanding. He rose up a few feet to survey the field, then dropped back to the ground to join the soldiers. 

“The stronghold on the mountainside,” said Rick, pointing to the dark stone structure that loomed ahead menacingly. “The scientists are kept in the south tower, old servants quarters,” Rick explained. 

Daryl looked over at his beloved, but Pol appeared to be distracted. “Everything okay?” No answer. “Pol?”

“Something is here,” Pol answered.

“Like what—“

Rick’s question was cut off by the scarlet blur of Pol’s form as the son of Zeus shattered the flying boulder with a mighty punch. 

“Like some of The Beings,” Pol answered. “Eris is near.”

Through the clearing dust, the men could see the one-eyed giant layered with impossible musculature. 

“That can’t be real!” Rick cried.

“It’s very real,” Pol said. “In the ancient world, it took entire armies to kill one.” He drew the gleaming sword. “I will have to suffice.”

“Hey!” Daryl said, grabbing Pol’s arm. “Be. Careful.” The two exchanged a kiss, and Pol leapt the distance of a football field, landing with a thundering crack as his blow shattered the metal bands around the tree trunk the beast was using for a club.

Pol cleaved the tree like newspaper. The cyclops kicked him into the smoldering remains of one of the tanks, denting it like flimsy tin. Daryl felt as if his breath had been stolen. Scanning the area, he found what he needed. The long barrel, bolt action rifle was loaded, and he took aim. His first shot bounced off the cyclops’ skull, betting negative attention as the thing sheared the tracks from the nearest tank and threw them wholly. Before it could shear them in half, the body of the dented tank fell between the men and The Being. 

Pol charged the beast just as the shriek cut through the air and the claws of the harpy grabbed him. It held fast, lifting the prince and driving him toward the waiting cyclops. Pol twisted an arm loose, pulled off the circlet, and threw it. The armored coronet rounded out and flattened according to divine design, forming a chakram that whirled out and around to lop off the harpy’s head before returning to its original shape and landing in Pol’s palm for a clean catch. The Being burst into green greasy flame as Pol broke free and flew under his own power, diving back and retrieving his sword. 

The cyclops stomped and roared, its great eye following Pol’s movement until the sound of the rifle shot. Then the beast grunted and fell forward dead before bursting into the sickly green flame and nauseating vapor. 

Pol landed, looking back at Daryl. “Did you get its eye?”

Daryl shook his head. “Nah,” he admitted. “It had a bigger mouth. I took a chance that it wasn’t armored inside.”

“Brilliant,” Pol said, exhaling with relief and more than a little excitement in his voice. “No ordinary mortal could do that. When we are done, we can properly celebrate your victory.”

Daryl gave him a knowing smile, then turn and faced Rick. “You all right?”

Rick just stared back in complete bewilderment. “Uh, yeah.”

\----

The spies dropped down silently from the wall’s edge. They made their way to a nearby corner and waited until the unit chief walked past to silence him permanently. Pol slipped down next to them at the steel security door to the tower. The sword silently cut through the metal of the door and the steel bar holding it fast inside as if it were soft butter. 

Rick swung the door open, and they stepped inside, looking for the dormitories. The guard station on the first floor was empty. The same was true as they peeked out of the stairwell to see the second floor guard desk. Moving quickly and quietly, they searched the tower room to find that, although there were signs of recent habitation, no one was inside the barracks at present. 

“We gotta check the main house,” said Daryl. “They know there was an attack, so they may have moved the scientists there.”

Rick agreed, and the trio made their way into the main estate. The garden was long dead and dried up. Statues were here and there. Pol stopped the two men and nodded at what appeared to be a guard. At first, Daryl thought it was a mannequin; the stone detailing was exquisite, especially the rictus of agony and terror on the face.

“Why is a statue in an SS uniform?” Rick asked. “They using it as a scarecrow?”

“Look only at the ground,” Pol said. “She’s hunting us.”

“Who?” 

The sound of the hisses seemed to echo from every wall inside the courtyard. There was another sound that made Daryl think of a rattlesnake, but it wasn’t quite the same. 

“The Gorgon.”

The arrow aimed at Rick’s back shattered against Pol’s bracer. “Go for the door!”

Daryl and Rick moved, zig-zagging to make themselves harder targets. It paid off as the arrow missed Daryl; he felt it breeze past his right shoulder. 

Pol focused and listened, taking the lasso from his side and glancing at the glass from the conservatory windows. He saw that Daryl and Rick made it safely inside the door. Machine gun fire erupted and Rick yelled out. A hissing laugh gave way to a flicker of movement in the windows; to his right and behind him, between the corner of an out building and the manor wall, Pol saw the Gorgon, bow drawn and knocked with two shafts. No doubt the fiend had coated the arrowheads with her poisonous blood. Pol watched her take aim. In a blur he stopped both shafts in flight, then lashed out with the lasso like a whip. The rope flared to life, a divine conduit of living, molten gold. The lash struck, and the Gorgon yelped. Pol whirled a wave through the cord, giving enough slack to loop it deftly around a scaled wrist. When the rope went taut, he turned his head and heaved. 

The otherworldly scream of terror at the pain of the lasso cracked several panes of glass in the tall windows. Further cracks developed in the main wall when the Gorgon slammed face-first into the heavy bricsl with a sound like a cannon shot. The back of her head writhed with asps and vipers, undulating in apparent shock from the force of the collision. The prince sighed heavily through his nose and walked over to the former Nazi officer who had either been a hapless victim or a whimsical amusement. Pol felt around until he found two coins, took them, and stepped back, all the while watching the Gorgon’s reflection for any sign of movement in the mirrored surface of the inner side of the shield.

“Pol?” came Daryl’s worried yell. “You all right?”

He noticed that Daryl had not peeked around the door facing. 

“I’m almost finished, beloved,” Pol answered. “Are you two injured?”

“Rick got grazed in the side, but young Miss Peletier is fixing him right up!” Daryl answered.

“Good,” Pol called out. “I will be finished shortly. Let none look outside yet, not even through the glass windows. Do you understand?”

“Roger that,” Daryl affirmed.

Still looking in the mirrored surface, Pol stepped back toward the downed Gorgon. He recognized the pattern and color of the scales. 

“Get up, Euryale,” he commanded, twitching the lasso as it flared to life again. He tosses the coins. “Take those to Charon and cross for home.” 

The head full of serpents burst to life, and the Gorgon gathered her snake’s body close, coiled to strike as she threw a curved dagger. This time, however, Pol caught it and threw it back. The dagger hit the Gorgon’s free hand and pinned it to one of the massive ballast stones in the retaining wall. She wailed in pain, and Pol watched as her dark blood smoked and etched the stone in rivulets.

“Why are you outside of my lord uncle’s domain?” demanded Pol. The Gorgon hiss and spit a stream of venom. Pol got the shield up quickly enough. The double streams would have struck his eyes. Pol could see the grass below him blacken and shrivel.

“I have had no quarrel with you or sisters,” Pol started. “Eris must have offered you something—“

“To the Pit of SSS-Stones-sss with Eris-sss _and_ with you and your coins-sss!” Euryale spat, her words sounding alien. She was trying to work a brazen claw under the lasso on her left wrist. When Pol tried to lower the shield, she spewed another stream of venom. 

Pol had had enough. A tug on the lasso made it flare again as the Gorgon screamed with pain. 

“Why are you here?” Pol asked, seeing that something was far from right. The Three Sisters were cantankerous and maleficent, but they had nothing but contempt for Eris who had cursed them long before. Now, they guarded a sacred temple on the Isle of the Dead, beyond the River Styx. As far as he knew, they were loyal and respected tenants of The Underworld. 

Pol could feel the Gorgon tremble against the power of the lasso, struggling to say nothing at all. He regretted that it had come to this.

“You must answer,” Pol said. “Why are you here?”

The Gorgon’s will gave way. “The Key of Bones-sss and the Bowl of the Gods-sss were sss-stolen from our temple. And now, I have sss-spoken of it, and Lord Hades-sss will punish us-sss for our negligence-sss.”

“You attacked us only in your hunt for the stolen items?” Pol confirmed.

“Yes-sss, sss-son of sszz-Zeus-sss,” Euryale declared. 

“If you are not in league with Eris, then I am not here to fight with you,” Pol explained. He flicked his wrist, and the lasso instantly slipped from the Gorgon’s wrist. She breathed easier. Carefully averting his eyes, Pol rose into the air and floated over to land beside Euryale. He knew she had turned and leaned in closer to face him. With a quick motion, Pol snatched out the dagger pinning her hand to the wall. 

“Your dagger, Euryale, daughter of Gorgon and Keto,” he said handing back the blade.

“You are either very bold, or very _foolish_ , Gargarean,” Euryale hissed from near his ear. “And you will pay for this-sss in-sss-sult.”

Pol closed his eyes shut and listened. The unnerving sounds of her scales sawing as her serpentine body rubbed against itself, the sound of her hair striking at each other, the drip of venom running from her fangs to kill what little grass remained on the ground below, Pol mapped all of it. Faster than lightning, Pol snatched creature by her serpentine hair and flung her over.

“Do _not_ mistake my courtesy for weakness, Gorgon,” Pol said sternly. “I have revered you and your sisters all my life, but if anyone has been insulted here, it is me.” 

The Gorgon recoiled and tried to collect herself, her tail finding the bow she had dropped. Now she searched for her quiver. 

“Sss-spare me your lies-sss!” she countered. “Another sss-son of sszz-Zeus-sss takes-sss from us-sss.”

“Another?”

She found her quiver. Pol heard her pull back the bow string. He wrapped the lasso around his wrist and it flared molten gold. “See here! I have never stolen from you or your sisters!”

The bow creaked as the string eased to rest.

“And I promise to bring whoever did to justice if it be in my power,” he stated. He heard the arrow slip back into the quiver. “Please tell me what happened that I may help return you to the favor of my lord uncle.”

The Gorgon’s tale was a simple one: "Days earlier, a thief crossed the Styx, entered our temple, made his way through the traps and barriers, stole sacred items, and when confronted, he cut Stheno in half—she was still regrowing herself or else she would be here as well."

“There are few Newlanders with the courage or skill to accomplish such a labor,” Pol stated, then added, “At least not without divine help.”

“Your brother,” Euryale declared. “Heracles-sss.”

“And he is Eris’s creature,” Pol stated. 

“Now, these mortals-sss seek to raise-sss themselves -sss to the sss-station of the gods-sss,” Euryale said. “It is here-sss-sy. They play with divine power like children among crocodiles-sss. They defile the items-sss in our charge with their pride and blas-sss-phemy. This-sss calls-sss for punishment.”

“They have earned their fate,” Pol agreed. “What may I do to repay insult and injury between us?”

The Gorgon considered, then spoke. “In this hous-ssse, there are followers-sss of Eris-sss. They wear the black raiment of this-sss one.” Euryale pointed to the SS officer. “They are mine—no interference.”

“Done,” Pol nodded, eyes still closed as he listened to the hissing grow closer. He could feel the air change as her face was right in front of his, her forked tongue tickling at the edge of his beard. 

“You are hand-sss-some, too,” Euryale said as a matter of fact. “Our is-sss-sue would be magnifi-sss-cent.”

“No doubt,” Pol whispered.

The Gorgon parted her lips. The prince could feel the snakse in her hair starting to card through his own. She took in a breath, stopped, and gasped before she went as still as any who had ever looked upon her.

“Your heart and sss-soul are already given,” she said, easing back. “To one who is-sss favored above all mortal men.”

Pol nodded. “Yes, great sister.”

“Be well, sss-Son of sszz-Zeus-sss,” the Gorgon hissed. “I go to claim vengeance-sss.” With her parting words, she raised up, slithered over to the side of the manor, and began to ascend the nearly sheer face of the castle wall with terrifying ability. When he was certain she had left, Pol opened his eyes, checked around with the mirrored inside of his shield, and streaked through the air to the side door. He found Daryl just inside the doorway. The strapping soldier was helping as a young girl of perhaps ten years was binding Rick’s wound.

“What was that thing?” asked Rick through gritted teeth.

“Euryale is a Gorgon and servant to Hades, god of the Underworld,” Pol explained. “No mortal can look upon her face, or that of either her two sisters.”

“Turn to stone,” Daryl answered. “Like Medusa.”

“The youngest of the Gorgons,” Pol said as a matter of record. “We are fortunate that it was Euryale and that she was alone. She is often considered the most reasonable of The Three Sisters. Stheno or Medusa would have fought to the death.”

“From the sound of things, she nearly did,” Daryl said. “Cut in half? Are they immortal?”

“Yes, and no,” Pol answered. “Which is another reason Medusa did not come and leave Euryale to guard the temple and tend to Stheno.”

The men and the girl looked puzzled. 

“The elder sisters were born mmortal, but not Medusa,” the prince explained. “She was once killed by Perseus, another son of Zeus, in order to stop one of the titans from devouring his true love. At the pleading of her sisters, Hades restored her and granted her immortality for as long as they would serve as custodians of the temple on the Isle of the Dead. Now that the bowl and the key are missing. Her immortality may be in question, and none of them would risk it again. As for the key and the bowl...” Pol sighed.

Daryl looked expectantly.

“This is bad,” Pol continued. “The bowl by itself is just a golden treasure, but if the apples of the Hesperides are placed in the bowl, they become ambrosia.”

“Fruit salad?” Rick grunted, obviously not amused and in some pain. 

“Food of the gods,” Pol said. “It can make a mortal immortal and powerful. Nectar is their drink, healing all wounds and more. You’ve seen what it can do.”

“The purple oil?” Daryl blurted out.

Pol nodded. “With the bowl, the apples, and nectar, a mortal could become a god.”

“Three guesses who Eris promised that to,” Daryl scoffed, disgusted that the thought that the maniacal tyrant of the Axis powers might be able to become of god. “And the key?”

“Could open the Infernal Door on Thessalios,” Pol finished. “Her final stroke against my fathers. This is no longer just about an atomic weapon,” Pol stated. He turned to the girl. “My name is Pol. Are you the daughter of Carol Peletier?”

She nodded. “I’m Sophia. Sophia Peletier. Are you going to rescue my mother?”

“Yes,” Pol nodded. He looked at the other civilians sitting under the tall windows. “Rick, can you and Sophia get these people to our rendezvous point?”

The tall man nodded, “We can. What about you two?”

“Don’t wait for us,” Daryl said, picking up a Luger pistol from the holster of one of the dead SS officers lying on the huge Turkish carpet. “We’re going to find Dr Peletier, and get back those artifacts.”

\----

Daryl felt Pol cover his eyes and beckon him to stay still the moment they heard the soldier in the hall take a breath. It was his last. The sickening sound like cracking bones filling the hallway before something very big slunk past. We the Gorgon had passed, they opened their eyes and entered the hall. At the far end, a statue dressed in a black uniform crouched behind a desk, trying to turn his terrified, forever-frozen face away from some unimaginable horror.

Pol stepped over to the nearby security door and kicked it inward completely off the hinges. Inside the room a cluster of Nazi officers were gathered in a far corner.

“Vee surrender!” said the one on the far left, stepping forward. “Don’t shoot! Vee are unarmed! Take us prisoner! Please!!!” 

Daryl kept his weapon on the men and started to move forward. Pol pulled his beloved back and over to his side of the doorway to face the opposite corner, took off his shield, and a showed the mirror view. The men started to run toward them in a desperate attempt to overpower them through numbers.

The first to reach the center of the room stopped dead in his tracks as he caught the movement through the open doorway. The crackling sound happened again, and Daryl swallowed hard as he saw the man attempt to claw out his own eyes just before he flared up from within like a burning coal and solidified completely. He felt Pol’s hand at the back of his head, physically keeping him from turning back to look. 

“You can shut your eyes,” Pol said. “Daryl, you don’t have to watch.”

Daryl had seen terrible things before, but the men urinating on themselves at the sight before them just as their skin lost its resilience, seemed to burn from within, and instantly cooled—that was a new level. Their veins shone below the surface of the marble to which they had transmuted. 

Daryl slammed his eyes shut before the Gorgon came into view in the reflection, her eyes glowing and her face an unfathomable nightmare. He heard her leave without so much as a word. Daryl had no problem with that. Knowing that his beloved had faced such horror, that it had passed so close to them, the amazing spy pulled his divine prince down with him to the floor in a fevered kiss and cried, checking Pol over and over to make sure he was all right.


	5. The Shadow Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little time jump--this is important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short but important. Again, this is for entertainment and experiential purposes. WW, Superman, GL, Batman & other Justice League heroes and villains are property of DC Comics. All characters from TWD are part of Skybound Ent.

Decades later…

“Bruce?” Pol inquired softly.

The Dark Knight opened his eyes and shifted in the hospital bed of the Watchtower’s infirmary; his bruised muscles and cracked ribs screamed despite the cold-light strap around his chest. Batman had tricked his own senses into anticipating the soft, steady beeps of the heart monitor at his bedside--the better to tune it out and relax. What had roused him, though, was the kind, familiar voice and the soft sliding of the pocket door to his room. In the dim light of the monitors, Bruce Wayne clearly made out Prince Pol’s form. 

“I’ll be fine.” The lie came so easily. Anyone else would have taken him at his word and left him alone—anyone else except for Alfred Pennyworth and the divine prince who now stood at his bedside. He was glad the god-of-a-man didn’t reach for the lasso at his side, but this time, he didn’t need to.

“I know,” Pol affirmed as he opened his hand to reveal a small gold and glass vial full of purple liquid. He opened it and held it to Batman’s lips. “Drink it. Please?”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“Olympian Nectar,” Pol answered. 

“Thanks,” Batman said, grabbing Pol’s wrist with an effort that sent spikes of agony through his side and back. “But no thanks. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to owe your family or any other deities for that matter.”

Pol put a comforting hand on top of the one with which his friend now held him gently at bay. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. “It doesn’t work that way.” 

Pol looked rough as well, his hands split at the knuckles; cuts and bruises still on his face, arms, mid-section, and left thigh. Bruce knew the Gargarean’s body would heal like new in a matter of hours, but neither of them had come away unscathed from the fight to rescue Superman. The pair had arrived at Kal’s northern base to celebrate the Kryptonian's birthday. Walking in to find Superman subdued and the red-eyed terror, Mongul, behind it was the last thing either of them had expected. They’d had close calls before: Brainiac; General Zod and other Phantom Zone escapees; Grodd’s entire Injustice Society; the machinations of Lex Luthor, Vandal Savage and Ra’s al Ghul; the Anti-Monitor; Darkseid and his subordinates. This had all the markings of high-level help, particularly to secure Mongul as an ally. 

Less than twelve hours ago, they had nearly lost Kal’El to the embrace of the Black Mercy. Bruce had to admit to himself that he had never been more impressed with Pol’s martial skills than when watching the Son of Zeus defeat Mongul, nearly killing the tyrant in methodical, practiced, _painful_ vengeance. Perhaps it was fortunate for the brute that Bruce had been able to remove the Black Mercy from Superman and subdue the alien warlord with his own psychic parasite before Pol slew Mongul outright. In retrospect, Batman considered that it might not have been such a bad thing to have let Pol rid the universe of the despot, but at the time, he had needed a living being to occupy the Black Mercy’s malignant attention. His fury unleashed at the sight of his friend subdued and Batman nearly crushed, the Wonder had broken the very bones of his own super-durable hands, elbows, knees, and feet as he rained devastating blows on Mongul—and that was without the Gauntlets of Atlas to augment his already unearthly strength. Pol literally cracked the red-eyed warlord’s skull against the Kryptonian steel vault Superman used to house endangered extraterrestrial species. Now, looking at the mythological marvel sitting on the edge of Bruce’s infirmary bed in his dented and torn cuirass, Bruce envied the fact that Pol’s armoring would also regenerate, whereas he himself was going to need another Bat-Suit. 

Pol was looking into his eyes with those glorious misty, blue-green irises. “Please, Bruce,” Pol implored. “Let me help you. You give your all for others and never take back for yourself because that’s who you are. But the life we lead has a price. Let me help you recover some of what you lost. It can even help with the prior spinal injury.”

Bruce sighed. He knew Pol wouldn't give up. “How much do I need to take?”

“Just a sip,” Pol assured. “Apollo’s light will care for the rest.”

Bruce sighed again, accepted the vial, took the smallest sip possible, and returned the vial. No sooner had he swallowed and Pol replaced the stopper than the pain in his side abated. He also knew that Pol could tell. 

“Feel like getting up?” Pol asked. “Maybe take a shower?”

A shower sounded like a wonderful idea, and until now, one of the most painful. Bruce nodded and grunted slightly as he leaned up and got to his feet slowly, removing the chest strap, it’s cold, blue light chilling the air. He appreciated that Pol let him do it on his own. It was only then that Bruce noticed that his shoulder was still dislocated. He tried to raise it enough to get it back in. The pain would have been worse without the Nectar. 

“Let me,” Pol said. Two soothing fingers slid along his neck and pushed at a pressure point at the base of his skull. 

The prince gently took the detective’s arm at the wrist, straightened it carefully, and raised it, blowing a soft breath along Bruce’s shoulder and up into his ear. The hair on Bruce’s neck prickled, and he felt something press and give, his arm suddenly able to move normally. There was a glow beneath the prince’s hands. Bruce shuddered involuntarily as the glow suffused his body, knitting his ribs and sternum like new, sliding his shoulder into place, and repairing the torn cartilage, muscles, and tendons. 

“It’s in. Was it so easy because of the Nectar?”

“In part, but it was mostly my brother’s light,” Pol answered softly, lowering Bruce’s arm. “Do you want help bathing? I don’t mind—unless it would make you uncomfortable. It would be an honor.”

“No, I—“ he began, then stopped, not wanting to come across as insecure. “I don’t mind that.” In fact, he really didn’t mind. Pol put him at ease when no one else could.

Pol nodded and walked to the side cabinet to procure a couple of towels. Bruce rose and followed him down the hall to the showers. It shouldn’t be any different than when Alfred helped him. The Caped Crusader watched as his friend pressed buttons to set the water temperature and pressure. 

Bruce removed the infirmary gown and stepped into the stall. He stopped and hesitated for long enough to say, “Thank you” to the man who have saved both his and Clark’s lives earlier. 

Pol removed the small band that held half his lustrous hair gathered up in a ponytail and let it all fall free. He removed his circlet, cuirass, boots and greaves, bracers, and pteryges to step in behind Bruce. He took a sponge pad from the dispenser and moved to wash the Caped Crusader’s back, hesitating for a moment of his own before touching his friend’s scarred flesh.

“I know it’s a mess,” the detective said quietly. “The merciless tutelage of Ra’s al Ghul. I should have had them taken care of by a plastic surgeon rather than blaming them on false tales of a misspent youth of base jumping and other extreme pursuits.” Bruce inhaled as he stepped into the water, wet down, and turned back to face Pol.

“You wear your courage,” Pol said, quietly comforting. His thoughts ran for a moment to a time long ago before he swallowed and returned to his task.

“It wasn’t courage,” Bruce countered. “And it cost me more than a scarred back.” He hung is head under the shower spray while Pol continued down his backside. “Maybe it’s why things didn’t work with the people I cared about: Rachel, Talia, Vicky, Selina.”

“Turn around,” Pol said. Bruce did so. He had to admit, those blue-green eyes were incredible. The rest of the Wonder’s physique was beyond perfection. Bruce felt a stirring that he had not anticipated. It wasn't as if he hadn’t been attracted to the divine prince—who wasn’t? But he hadn’t been sure if he was ready to pursue that avenue himself, and he certainly wouldn’t want to do anything that damaged his personal and professional relationships.

“Where are you?” Pol mused. Bruce’s attention snapped back to the moment. “You seem like you’re a million worlds away.” The man’s touch felt really good.

"You want the truth?" 

Pol arched a perfect eyebrow and gave his friend a look that read "Really?" Batman shrugged and went with his train of thought. What could it hurt now?

“I was pondering my failed relationships,” Bruce answered. When he turned to let Pol wash his chest and arms he could read the compassion in the Wonder's face.

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person yet,” Pol offered. “Someone who sees beyond the cowl and the scars.”

“Because those are so plentiful,” the billionaire countered, the cynicism palpable in the hard exhale through his nostrils.

“You speak of women,” Pol said, kneeling down the wash the man’s thighs, legs, and feet. “But have you ever been with a man? I mean romantically, not experimenting or in a bout of lust.” Pol’s ministrations were removing the tension from his toes. 

_Who knew?_

Bruce thought for a moment and decided to answer honestly. “The only one I would consider pursuing is seeing another friend.” He recognized that he was willing his cock into submission.

“Really? Who is that?” Pol asked, a genuinely happy smile on his face as he worked on the other foot. When Batman didn’t answer, the Wonder looked back up.

The silence stretched on as Bruce looked at the prince. Pol had finished his feet and stood up before him. The amazing prince had a complete erection, and it was magnificent to behold. His long, thick phallus arced up perfectly, foreskin retracted, and he wasn’t ashamed in the least for Bruce to see. 

*I see." Pol smiled and dispensed the shampoo, working the lather through Bruce’s hair, his nails scraping gently. The task of maintaining composure grew ten-fold as Pol stepped in closer, and Bruce felt their bodies touch. “I love Kal. He's kind and forthright—sometimes to a fault—but my love for him is that of a brother.”

“Oh,” Bruce said, unable to hide his genuine confusion. “I thought you two had gotten fairly close.”

Pol tilted Bruce's head back into the stream to rinse out the lather. When he opened his eyes again, Pol was dispensing conditioner and began running it lightly through his hair again. 

“We _are_ close, and it's not that don’t find him attractive—quite the contrary,” Pol explained. “And he has expressed interest before, but he is _in love_ with Lois. I think one would say that Kal and I aren’t on the same page right now, and we’ve never been intimate.” 

Pol’s impressive length rubbed at his hip. Bruce realized his resolve was wavering in his battle to ward off his own erection. Then, it occurred to him: Why would Pol care if he had an erection? He knew that the prince’s people revered erections and saw them as compliments, signs of bravery, and evidence of virility. Bruce let it happen.

Pol finished rinsing Bruce’s hair. Suddenly, he noticed the now hard member joining his own between their soap-slicked bodies. The Wonder looked back at the detective. Bruce slid a hand to Pol’s right hip; the other came up to touch the left side of Pol’s face. Bruce leaned forward and slotted their lips together, their mutual erections rubbing between their wet bodies. The kiss was absolutely _magnificent_ ; it was satisfaction, security, redemption, salvation: a glory beyond the worlds they both knew. Pol drew back.

“Oh, Bruce!" Pol said, pulling back, his angelic face belying the battling feelings in his heart. "I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to ruin it—“

“It’s okay,” Batman assured. “I didn’t melt.” He immediately noticed something wrong. “In fact, it was—are you all right?”

Pol's face scrunched up and tears flowed freely as the beautiful prince shook his head. The overwhelming sadness, the sense of loss and grief made Bruce’s chest ache as he watched it bring his wondrous friend to his knees. He knew Pol’s history and exactly where this reaction came from. Batman knelt down under the spray and cradled the Wonder in his arms, attempting to sooth the scars on the warrior’s soul. He knew Clark had silently flown down the hall, peering right through the bulkhead to see what was happening; Batman simply waved him away. Bruce hugged Pol closer and softly, gently kissed the top of the Glorious Gargarean's head as he held him. 

“Tell me about Daryl Dixon.”

\----

“Tommy!” The young mother’s desperate scream cut through the screeches of the White Martians. 

“Mom! Help!” the little boy cried back as one of the alien foot soldiers swept down upon him, a terrible, screeching mouth full of sharp teeth now making it impossible for the child to turn away.

A flash of dark metal hit the beast between the eyes and detonated, blowing the shape-changing soldier’s head from its shoulders as the Caped Crusader swooped down beneath its trajectory and grabbed the boy to swing him along to safety just as the remains of the Martian crashed to the sidewalk with a sickening crack and a wet, squelching noise. Recoiling the line launcher, Batman landed and set the child down at the mouth of the alleyway where his mother scooped him up into her arms.

“ _Wow_! Batman saved me, Mom!” exclaimed Tommy. 

“Yes!” the frantic woman intoned. “Thank you!”

Batman started to nod back but saw Tommy’s eyes go wide. He instantly flipped forward and twisted to be able to land and face whatever threat had come up behind his former position just as three White Martian soldiers opened fire, their energy blasters scoring deep pits into the concrete. 

“Get down!” he ordered, tossing two bat-a-rangs into the brick buildings on each side of the alley entrance. The stylized, high-tech weaponry was sharp enough to pierce the bricks easily, and the electronics went to work projecting the protective energy barrier. The bright green bolts of energy pounded the force shield. It wouldn’t hold for long. Batman slipped on the electro-knuckles from his utility belt and readied two more explosive bat-a-rangs. The shield’s blue light was flaring and fading under the relentless assault. Three more White Martians joined in, concentrating their fire. The shield buckled and bubbled inward before both projectors died out. The bat-a-rangs flew, exploding on contact. Martians shrieked, lost cohesion, and died as the high-voltage blows stuck them. It was over in less than three seconds.

“Batman! Look out!” 

The Caped Crusader spun at the boy’s cry, stun darts flying forth and taking out three more enemies, but six Martian soldiers now gathered at the other end of the alley and brought their weapons to bear. Reacting to his surroundings and on years of instinct, the detective kicked open the back entrance to a dry cleaning service, pushing the mother and son through the open doorway just as the electro-grapple cuff clamped around his right ankle and pulled him halfway back down the alley.

 _Damn._

The crimson and blue streak landed in the middle of the alley, crouching just in front of him and facing his assailants. Energy bolts flew forth and reflected off silvery metal bracers and greaves The Wonder’s dance-like movements were too fast to follow, and the soldiers were lethally thwarted by the very volley of destructive fire they had meant for Batman, Tommy, and his mother.

“It’s the Wonder!” yelled Tommy, now peeking back out into the alley with wide eyes. His mother pulled him back inside.

Pol turned to reach a hand to his friend and help him up. 

“Thanks,” Bruce muttered.

Pol stepped in close, his new smile drawing a crooked grin from the stoic Dark Knight. Both men were pleased to admit that their relationship had progressed steadily closer since that day in the shower weeks before. 

“You are a champion worthy of the Hall of Heroes on Thessalios, but I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I didn’t watch your back. You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?” The prince’s voice was soft and breathy. 

“Blend in and hunt them down!” came the order in the reverberating voice from somewhere outside the alleyway. 

“This way!” Bruce called as he fired a line and zipped out of the alley. Pol took to the air and streaked along behind him.

Batman and the Wonder stopped in another nearby alley where Pol found Bruce clipping a significant wad of cash to a laundry line and holding out jeans and a shirt for him to wear. The detective was already shedding his cowl and cape and pulling on borrowed clothes of his own. He knew Pol wasn't very keen on clandestine measures, but the Gargarean was very aware of the tactical benefits and began tugging on the tight jeans and the black t-shirt. From his belt kit, Bruce had, much to Pol’s amusement, produced and added a realistic looking goatee. Pol quietly voiced his approval and pulled his own hair back into a ponytail.

No sooner were the pair disguised than they heard noises of movement coming their way. Pol grabbed Bruce up and the heroes soared away just as two more White Martian scouts approached their position. Landing around the corner and farther up the street, Pol looked around for a solution, smiled at his finding, and dragged Bruce behind him and up to the door of the nightclub. 

“Good choice,” Bruce nodded, taking out more cash and paying the doorman as they entered.

Together, the pair found a dark corner of the gay bar. The mass of dancing men in various states of dress provided numbers, and the heavy bass of the music would play havoc on the White Martians’ senses, allowing the pair to remain obfuscated and giving them a chance to assess the situation. Who had released this contingent, and why? As he was mulling over the logic of their predicament, Bruce noticed two men standing in the doorway, dressed for a business meeting rather than a nightclub. The Martian gave himself away when he reached to put his fingers on the face of the irate doorman who was adamant that the two had to pay to enter; the digits shifted to white, splotched tendrils that invaded the poor man’s nostrils, ears, and the corner of his right eye, cutting off a scream of terror and snuffing out his life. The alien reformed his hand, fingertips now coated with blood. In the darkness of the club, none but the most astute would notice. The alien infiltrators started moving through the crowd and surveying the room. 

Without a second thought, Pol pushed Bruce against the back wall of the venue, stood in front of him, and kissed him passionately. Bruce kept his composure, understanding how Pol’s action let them blend in further and still allowed him keep an eye on their adversaries. Knowing this was less familiar territory for his friend, the prince eased the detective’s hands to his hips and placed his own arms around Bruce’s wide shoulders, fingers running through the man's dark tresses. 

One of the Martians looked over at them for a moment. Bruce let his right hand find the waistband of Pol’s jeans and slide down under them, cupping the demigod's perfect ass. He felt Pol’s amused reaction. Then, he felt Pol’s tongue between his lips, Bruce invited the prince into his mouth. 

The aliens turned and left, apparently giving up on their quarry for now. Bruce slowly pulled away from the kiss, but kept his hand where it was, forefinger rubbing the skin delicately. 

“I’m—“

“No,” Pol said, cutting him off and putting two fingers to Bruce’s lips. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Good,” Bruce stated. “Because I’m _not_.” He rested their foreheads together. “I know it’s difficult. I know it may take you some time, or maybe you’ll never be ready. But I’m ready to try. I want to try. With _you_.”

Pol nodded. “I think I’m ready to try too. Just be patient. I care about you so much, Bruce.”

“Bruce Wayne?!!” one of the patrons exclaimed. “I _knew_ you were one of us! Dude, you're _way_ too hot to be straight. Love the facial hair!”

Bruce smiled at Pol and said, “Let’s go before we’re attacked by another kind of menace: the paparazzi.” The young man started looking at Pol in amazement mouthing to himself.

“Agreed,” said Pol. When they were back outside and changed he added, “I don’t know about you, but I am _done_ being the prey tonight.”

Bruce replaced his cowl, squinted his eyes, and gave a single nod.

"And I like the facial hair, too."

\----

Batman nodded and touched his comm-link. “J'onn,” he said. “Pol and I have taken out the final squadron. You might want to send a clean-up crew. None of the remnants at the battle sites need to be in Cadmus’ hands.”

“Acknowledged, Batman,” replied the Martian Manhunter. “A team is assembling for transport now. Green Arrow will take over from there. By the way, you were right. We are picking up increased quantum entanglement readings.”

“Boom-tubes,” Batman stated.

“Precisely,” J'onn J'onzz confirmed. “The White Martian outbreak is definitely a ploy to distract—“ Both Bruce and Pol could hear the rigning of alarms over the comm-link. “Wonder! Batman! Get _out_ of there—” 

J'onn’s words cut off as reality in the alley sheared open into a circular doorway. The undulating Omega beams that lashed forth from the aperture almost connected with the back of Batman’s head before clashing against andronium, but it was the stunning wail of Eris that blew both of them back. Blurry-eyed and ears ringing, Batman watched helplessly as a malevolent, black-light nimbus manifested around the Wonder.

“Bring the Gargarean,” came the sonorous voice of the Lord of Apokolips. “Son of the Old Gods will serve my needs. His earth father will open the door to the Underworld, and our ally, Eris, will deliver the remaining piece of the Anti-Life Equation to fuel my power. Brainiac, enact stage four, and release my new enforcers from the Phantom Zone. I want General Zod and his forces ready to take this planet in the next solar day. Advise him that failure will be met with oblivion. Send the Wonder to Despero for mental reconditioning. Once we are wed, the prince will give himself freely to me, and I will drink away his life over centuries.”

“Enacting stage four,” answered the cold voice of Brainiac. “Retrieving the Wonder as ordered. Depsero has been notified.” 

Pol’s body rose and floated toward the opening. Grabbing for the Wonder’s arm, Batman’s gloved hand crackled against the energy sheath and slid away, unable to get a grip. As his outstretched fingers lost contact with Pol, he grabbed again in desperation; his fingers caught in two loops of the lasso, pulling it free. 

“Releasing para-demon shocktroops to soften this world,” Brainiac intoned. Seconds later, para-demons began flying out of the opening en masse. “Phantom Zone opening at coordinates 41.237 North by 1.823 East. Time to optimum solar power absorption estimated at ten point six hours. Caution! Anomalous threat identified. There is a two point two four three five percent chance of significant interference from Batman. Recommend extermination of threat.”

“The mortal is of no consequence,” replied Darkseid. “Focus on your task, machine.” 

“Of course, mighty Darkseid,” answered Brainiac as the last of the legion of para-demons flew through the boom-tube and the aperture folded in upon itself to warp the air and slam shut with a thunderous report. 

Pol.

The Dark Knight sat up right, staring down the four para-demons now training their weapons up him. The fiery red bolts from their blasters suddenly bounced off the green glowing bubble of energy now surrounding himself and the Green Lantern of Sector 2814 who had swept down to defend his compatriot.

“You all right?” cried John Stewart, still concentrating on maintaining the hard-light construct’s integrity. 

“They have Poll,” Bruce answered. The side look that John gave him said that the Marine at clearly picked up on the dark venom in Bruce’s voice. 

A furious pair of red and white energy streams cut the flying invaders in half, causing them to explode and fall to the earth. Superman stood floating in mid-air, his heat vision wiping out the hoard as quickly and carefully as possible. 

Batman stood up and depressed several button on the inside of his left glove as he stared at the lasso. John's power ring ceased projecting the energy shield as Clark lowered down and landed next to them. 

“Darkseid’s been behind this with the goddess Eris,” Batman said, his tone hard and callous as he rubbed the golden cord between his gloved fingers. “They've planted major distractions and obstacles for us: Cadmus’ paranoia and LuthorCorp’s sudden tech boom; Mongul and the Black Mercy; the White Martian breakout. The megalomaniac wants the divine power of the Underworld to finish the Anti-Life Equation, and he’s going to try to use Pol against us, the Olympians, and his own people to get it, all the while siphoning away Pol’s immortality. Darkseid has Despero assigned to brainwash him into servitude—a slave. Meanwhile, Brainiac’s coordinating strikes with Zod and his Kryptonian soldiers. They’ve just been released in Sitges, Spain.” 

“I’m calling in the Lantern Corp,” announced Jon, his power ring pulsating frantically. “We’ll handle the invading troops.”

“I’m going to stop Zod and his forces,” declared Superman, a determined look on his features. He activated his comm-link. “Code Omega: Captain Atom, Captain Marvel, Super Girl, Mon’El, Super Boy, and Power Girl, report to the following coordinates. “And Jonn’Jonnz, put out a bounty on Brainiac to Lobo.” Kal’El glanced over at his friend as Batman turned away. “We need you.”

“ _He_ needs me more,” Bruce said, still walking to the end of the alley. “I’ll be on Apokolips.”

“Bruce!” called Superman, the worry in his voice unmistakable. “That’s suicide!”

The Dark Knight looked over his shoulder and fired a line. “Then unto hell.” And he was gone.


	6. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Dixon and Prince Pol face a new and terrible foe!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time coming, so you get TWO chapters!!!! (Yay!!!) I really hope you enjoy, and yes there are some time jumps, but please stay with it; I promise it will make sense later. As always, happy reading XOXO!!!

From their vantage point in the brush, the strapping pilot pointed out to the two enemy soldiers standing watch over the women working in the wheat field, each standing at one end of the small plot of earth with their machine guns in hand. The air was warm and still.

“What do you see?” the pilot asked, his voice a raspy whisper.

“The guards have their weapons at the ready,” replied the prince quietly. “Are these women prisoners? Are they deadly warriors? Both?”

The major shook his head. “Prisoners, yes. Deadly warriors, not at all.” Daryl turned to face Pol, silently thanking the stars for his luck to be so close, so intimate, so in love with the beautiful man next to him. 

Pol looked back and smiled, feeling his own heart melt at the sight of his handsome spy. “The women are camouflage. Their presence hides something else.” The demigod’s wondrous, misty-blue eyes sparkled with realization. “The compound we’re looking for and its entrance!”

Daryl smiled and nodded. He started to lean forward, but stopped himself. Time to work, not play. Instead, his fantastic prince leaned in, caught his lips, and claimed them for himself. Daryl blushed as they broke apart.

“Even in battle, lovers kiss to remind themselves for whom they fight hardest,” Pol explained. 

The handsome officer nodded his understanding and acceptance of what was clearly an axiom. “Let’s go find a door.”

Moments later, the last thing the Axis soldier knew of this world was the feeling of strong hands and arms around his neck before the terrible, meaty pop ended all things. The soldier at the far end noticed his missing counterpart soon after and began crossing the field of nearly hip-high wheat stalks. He made it two-thirds of the way across before the loop of molten gold drew taut around his chest, and he was flung back to the center of the field. As he sat up, he noticed that he had dropped his weapon. Before he could go for his sidearm, the forced laborers’ scythe blades fell upon him. 

Daryl stood and watched as Pol crossed the distance. While the field laborers chattered quietly among themselves, one of the women turned to Daryl and Pol and pointed to what appeared to be an old flatbed wagon. On closer inspection, Daryl found the old wagon attached to sliding tracks and a slab that formed a sliding door. Unfortunately, it appeared to be locked. Daryl gave Pol a sidelong glance, stepped back, and waved a hand at the obstacle. Pol smiled back affectionately, stepped forward, and knelt down to get a grip on the edge of the slab beneath the tracks. The entirety came free from the ground with a breaking of concrete and wood, flipped to the side by the divine hero as if it were made of cardboard. Daryl just shook his head in awe as the Son of Zeus stood and brushed his hands against each other.

A set of steps began just inside the opening. A pair of small electric bulbs in a frosted glass globe partially illuminated the way down. Daryl raised the machine gun and started down the steps until Pol touched his shoulder, held up an Andronium bracer before him, and raised an eyebrow. Daryl nodded with a sigh through his nose. The Wonder kissed the Major’s cheek and turned to take point, stepping down into the darkness. Upon reaching the second landing, they noticed red light bulbs at a pressure door. Fortunately, this one was not sealed, allowing the pair to sneak in quietly. 

Beyond the door was a hallway. Triple pane glass windows on each side revealed laboratories of varying types with personnel working frantically. In the third lab, standing before a blackboard full of complex mathematical formulae, was the woman Daryl Dixon had been looking for. Dr Carol Peletier looked think and tired. As she punched buttons on the heavy calculator to triple check the computations, Daryl could see the lines of worry and exhaustion. She wrote a notation on a nearby clipboard and took it with her to a door at the back of the room.

Daryl opened the door to the third lab room and stepped in, Pol right at his heels. He came to a halt and turned back to shift his attention when Pol touched the small of his back and nodded toward the blackboard. On it was a meticulously detailed image of a wide bowl with Greek-style portrayals and gilded handles. The next board displayed a drawing of what appeared to be a T-bar tool. Upon closer inspection, the tool was composed of multiple bones sheathed in intricate metalwork. Both renderings had exact dimensions listed next to them. In his head, Daryl could hear the alien lisp of the Gorgon’s words.

_The Bowl of the Gods-sss. The Key of Bones-sss._

Kicking himself into gear, Daryl strode on. They crossed the room together, heading for the door at the far side of the room where Dr Peletier had just exited. The spy listened at the door, but heard nothing. Slowly, Daryl turned the doorknob and let the door swing inward. Nothing happened.

Pol stepped into the open doorway, sword drawn and shield ready, as Daryl followed in behind him. 

Carol Peletier stood at a table in the center of the room. Two bodies lay on the floor, and a bitten apple in the hand of one, and sprig of half-eaten grapes in the hand of the other. Test subjects.

 _Jewish prisoners? No. The scientists’_ family _members._

Daryl could see Pol had come to the same conclusion. The doctor was staring at the fruits resting in the golden bowl on the table in the center of the stark room. “This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, her French accent strong, her voice wracked with grief. “I don’t know why it’s not working—“ Dr Peletier suddenly noticed to whom she was speaking. Clearly, it was not the prince and the pilot who she’d been expecting at all. The woman threw her hands out in front of her in a defensive gesture and backed away quickly. 

“Dr Peletier?” Major Dixon confirmed.

The scientist sighed in relief. “Are you—are you British?”

“American,” Daryl answered, then tilted his head toward the prince, “And Gargarean. We’re here to rescue you. We have Sophia; she’s safe and sound at the rendezvous point, waiting on us to come back with her mama.”

Dr Peletier looked at the Wonder, then her face took on a look of terror. “Non, non, non!”

“Doctor,” the spy called, trying to reassure the woman and to figure out why she’d become distressed again at seeing Pol. The warrior prince was instantly on the alert. 

“Où est- _il_?” Pol asked in French. “L’autre fils de Zeus? Est-il ici, Docteur? C’est très important.”

“Je ne sais pas!” Carol claimed emphatically. “Il est parti avec les commandants.” She switched over to English. “He-he went with the command staff. They said they had to get the right apples.”

Pol looked at Daryl and spoke a single word: “Home.”

“Doctor, can you help us pack up these artifacts?” Daryl asked. He looked at the notes. Are these the only records?”

She answered yes to both and pulled two foam filled suitcases from under the worktable. Pol stopped Daryl before he could touch the bowl or the key. Clearly they were not meant for mortal hands. 

A very unpleasant thought occurred to Daryl. “These belong in the care of the Gorgons?”

Pol nodded. “Euryale will _not_ return across the River Styx without these; her sister’s immortality depends upon it, and given enough time, she can find them _anywhere_.” 

“I’m guessing she won’t be discriminating in how she gets them back?” Daryl asked.

Pol shook his head.

“Let’s get a move on, then.” 

Once the items were packed with Dr Peletier’s notes, Pol and Daryl led her out of the underground facility, making their way north west to catch up with Major Grimes. 

The women previously working in the field were nowhere to be seen. Daryl found a car in the nearby shed. The keys were still in the ignition, and it had fuel. That would cut the travel time.

Daryl drove along with Carol in the passenger seat while Pol flew overhead. The countryside at dusk was quiet. Too quiet. The air held a stillness that belied ill fortune. Carol shrieked when she saw the figure in the road. Daryl tried to plow over him only to witness the massive figure stop the car to a halt, sliding back a few feet. 

The man stood nearly seven feet tall, his physique rippling with muscle. His, golden cuirass caught the light from the headlamps of the car. A glittering, golden lion skin hung around his shoulders like a cape. He lifted the front of the car—and dropped it, shaking the occupants as a crack like a cannon shot exploded outside. Daryl, tried to get his bearings when he realized what had caused the thunderous report. 

Pol stood between the vehicle and the brute, who had been knocked back a good hundred feet.

“Heracles,” Pol said.

The giant laughed and sat up from where he’d been blasted back to sprawl out over eighty feet away. “You hit _well_ , little brother!” the gargantuan man congratulated. “Better than your uncle—or any of your late sisters.”

Pol didn’t take the bait. Heracles wanted him to lose his cool, to react in anger. Two could play at that game. “So the weakling blood-traitor finally dares to show his face.” The cheeky smile melted from Heracles’ face. “I’ve always wondered: is it the milk from Eris’s teat that makes you a coward, or were you already like this when you killed your own family and turned your back on the brothers to whom you swore your allegiance?”

The bloodcurdling war-cry caused a heavy crack in the car’s windshield. Heracles drew forth his war club, a double-handed monstrosity of marble quarried by Hephaestus from the heart of Mount Olympus. The earth exploded at the point of contact, sending a shockwave that rolled and rippled through the terrain in a wave six feet high. Pol grabbed the vehicle and rose up into the air, narrowly avoiding the avalanche. 

“Incoming!” Daryl yelled.

Pol held fast as the club struck the shield on his back. Pol nearly dropped the car before getting back to the ground safely.

“Fool!” Heracles spat. “I will kill your woman _and_ her bodyguard! Perhaps I will sport with her fir—“ The Wonder’s shield arced through the air at a precise angle, delivering a tremendous blow to the ribs of his traitorous brother just underneath the cuirass and missing the impenetrable pelt before bouncing back to Pol. Heracles threw back his head and cried out in agony as he dropped to one knee. The sword struck him in the throat. 

Pol landed and his eyes went wide as Heracles made what was possibly a laughing noise and pulled the blade from his neck, standing once again completely nonplussed and giving the shocked Wonder a surprise. 

“GO!” Pol yelled to Daryl. He knew his future consort hated it, but Daryl followed Pol’s command, and the car sped away as best it could. 

“In case you were wondering, little brother”, Heracles rasped as his throat knitted itself back together leaving neither blood nor blemish. “Eris holds to her word.”

“Hardly. You’ve eaten the apples of the Hesperides!” Pol exclaimed.

“And with the bowl, I shall turn them into Ambrosia,” Heracles declared. “I _will_ be a god, and I shall overthrow Zeus and take my place as ruler of Olympus! I give you this one chance to join me.”

“What of Eris?” Pol demanded.

Heracles puffed a snort of derision. “Once I’ve taken our father’s throne, I will make her content to skulk about as ruler of Tartarus, so that she may be forever close to her eternally imprisoned parents and cause them to fight and bicker in perpetuity.”

“Then you were a coward and traitor both now _and_ then,” Pol said, flinging the lasso forth. Heracles had expected it; he caught the loop and yanked with all his might, pulling Pol in close to swing with the club. Pol got a bracer up, but the force knocked his own forearm back into his face. The concussion rang throughout his head and buzzed in his ears. He blinked as he felt the world become solid again. Then, he felt the lasso slip around him. He struggled, but the cord flared, unyielding.

“It is said that this lasso cannot be broken,” Heracles intoned, his words terribly ominous. “Let’s put it to the test!” Pol felt himself yanked into the air and snapped like a whip to crash to the earth. This happened three more times before Heracles began hurling him around in a classic hammer throw.

Shots rang out. The skin at the backs of Heracles’ legs filled with searing pellets of extreme annoyance coming from the man leaned over the lowest limb of the great oak nearby. Heracles released the rope, and Pol was flung far over the tree line and out of sight. Daryl’s rifle trained in on the living tank now running at him, the great club rising high. Daryl’s shot hit the demigod in the left eye; Heracles never slowed. The club came down before Daryl could turn and bolt. Something streaked down to land between them. A concussive blast exploded around them as Pol stood, bracers crossed, forming a shield to protect himself and Daryl. The earth rippled and the great oak next to them shattered into splinters.

Heracles eyes went wide, and he roared with disbelief as Pol struck his bracers together, releasing his own destructive torrent back at his brother. The wayward Son of Zeus lay dazed in the far end of the field a quarter of a mile away. Pol streaked over.

“This can still end well!” Pol yelled. “Come back with us, brother!” Heracles rose, shaking his head to clear it and picking up the Sword of Aphrodite. Pol stood ready, expecting nothing but treachery; he was not disappointed as his own sword tumbled end over end toward his heart, the great club flying right behind it. Moving in a blur, the Wonder caught the handles of each weapon, performed an axial pirouette, and returned them to the outlaw. Heracles’ fingers flew off as he tried to catch the blade in a showy move. He was even move dumbstruck when his own club smashed into his head. Rising slowly, he yelled and scowled as he searched for his missing fingers, finding and reattaching them one-by-one, becoming whole again. When he turned, Pol stood near him, sword pointed.

“You may be immortal, _fiend_!” the Wonder warned. “But you will _not_ enjoy life in _pieces_!”

“Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance. So be it, little brother,” Heracles nodded, backing away. “I cannot tarry with you any longer. My prize awaits, and Eris and I have a door to open.” Taking up his club, the giant man turned and leapt away nearly three miles by Daryl’s reckoning. Pol watched after him, then turned and flew back to Daryl, landing shakily.

“He thinks we just have a useless woman, not a scholar, and certainly not the bowl and key,” Pol advised. “We have to hurry.”

Daryl looked at the bruises on Pol’s waist and ribs, the cuts on his thighs, hands, and face.

“Pol, you’re hurt,” Daryl said, coming forward to take the prince in his arms. Pol winced, sucking in a hissing breath, but nodded to continue.

“I’ll be fine with time, Daryl,” Pol assured, leaning up to kiss Daryl’s lips. Daryl could taste the blood on them. “We must return to Thessalios. Daleon will have Nectar, and my father’s forces can reinforce The Infernal Door.”

Daryl sighed and nodded. Carol waited for them a mile away behind wheel of the car, Daryl’s Luger pistol lying on the seat beside her. The spy helped his handsome prince into the backseat to try to tend his wounds along their journey.

\----

“Maman!” Sophia cried, dashing to Dr Peletier as fast as her feet could carry her. 

The car had barely stopped when Carol flung open the door, nearly losing her footing and falling face first as she raced to embrace the girl. The pair of them fell to their knees and wept together at the reunion. 

Pol eased from the back of the car as Daryl came around to help him out. At least his bleeding had stopped. Daryl’s face spoke volumes as he took in Pol’s condition, biting his bottom lip.

“It looks worse than it feels,” Pol reassured, smiling back up at his handsome pilot.

Daryl fingered the lasso hanging from the belt and raised an eyebrow. Pol huffed a laugh. “I’m healing. I promise.” 

“Dr Peletier, I am Major Rick Grimes, United States Army Air Corps. Major Dixon and I have been assigned to get you out of here and all the way to the United States as soon as possible. You and Sophia have a new home waiting for you in America,” Rick said, having joined the group. “We’re about to fly out, so you’d best come with me to the plane.”

Dr Peletier stood and nodded. “Yes, of course, Major,” Carol replied. “Just one moment, please. There are things you must know.” She collected herself. “High Command is attempting to make soldiers like this Heracles: soldiers who are both physically amplified and virtually invulnerable. They were starting with the artifacts as instructed by a woman they call ‘Madame Enyo.’”

Everyone listened carefully. 

“She has promised godhood to Hitler and his top ministers, ensuring the reign of the Third Reich for millennia by using the bowl to create the food of the gods,” Carol explained. “Until today, I did not believe that this Heracles was 

\----

“By the gods!” Acteon exclaimed, seeing the plane soar down from the clouds, bank, and slow to land safely on the high promontory. “Send word to his majesty and the Guardian General. Our prince returns.” On seeing his prince climb painfully from the cockpit with the Major’s assistance, he caught the runners arm and added another directive in a lower voice. “And send for First Minister Daleon to meet us in the prince’s chambers first. Keep it quiet. Go!” The messenger dashed away on one of the winged stallions. 

Crixius raced forward and knelt before Pol. “My prince, I—“

“Rise, Crix” Pol waved. “There’s no need for such formality.” Crixius looked stricken. "Please bring these to my father immediately," Pol ordered, nodding to the cases Daryl was removing from the cargo hold.

Daryl thought Pol looked a lot better, but it was clear he was still in pain and not totally healed. Acteon was suddenly standing before Daryl, clasping forearms in greeting and actually smiling. “Welcome home, your royal highness, and too you Major Dixon. From the looks of things, the two of you must have much to tell us of the war in the New Lands.” 

“Thank you, Acteon,” Daryl replied.

“My friends,” Pol said, embracing the two Gargarean soldiers. “I’ve missed you both.”

“This way, highness,” Crixius said, breaking away to lead the prince and his future consort to another winged mount before he and Acteon followed suit. 

The stallions charged forth, unfurled their wings, and rose into the air. Together, they flew across the lush paradise. Verdant forests, rolling plains, pristine beaches, and dense, mountainous jungles finally gave way to the terraced city-state of polished marble. Pol sat forward with Daryl up behind him, a comforting arm holding the prince close as Daryl guided the legendary beast along behind Crixius.

The flying mounts set down on the balcony of the royal palace. Daryl hopped down and turned to give Pol a hand off the horse. His prince smiled down, took his hand, and dismounted, thanking his pilot for the care he was still giving. Acteon moved his steed over to Crix, whispered about seeing him tonight, and kissed the man on the lips before dismounting. Crixius smiled back, inclined his head to the prince and the pilot, and led the beasts off again through the air.

Acteon watched his lover ride away, then turned and led the pair inside the bed chamber, coming up short when they saw who was already waiting within. General Symonicus stood in the middle of the room. First Minister Daleon waited quietly at his side. The runner stood behind both of them and tried to give Prince Pol and Acteon a look as if to say it couldn’t be helped. Both Acteon and Pol saluted the commanding officer and nodded to the Minister. The tall, stern man retuned the salute before stepping forward to clasp his nephew’s forearms and kiss the top of Pol’s head. 

“By Apollo’s light, my prince,” Daleon swore, examining Pol’s wounds as he removed the stopper from the vial of Nectar in his hand. “What did this?” The man could fuss and worry with the best of them, but the timbre of his voice now made Daryl worry that he had not done enough to help his beautiful prince. Daleon guided Pol to sit and drink the vial.

“It was _him_ ,” came a voice from the doorway. King Negamemnon strode in, a wave of what Daryl could only describe later as authority and pure charisma filling the entire room in his wake. Jaered and two of the royal guard were as shadows right behind him. Pol rose to his feet against Daleon protests to stand before his fathers. “Was it not?”

“I fought with Heracles,” Pol said, after bowing to his father. “He is very powerful, perhaps more powerful than I.” Daryl felt ice form in his stomach at hearing Pol admit those words. “And, he’s eaten of the apples of the Hesperides.” Pol looked to his father. “He’s mad. He wants to betray Eris and overthrow Olympus.”

The room was silent but for the flickering of the flames in the lamps.

“But he can be cut,” Pol explained. “And I will stop him and bring about Eris’ defeat.”

“He can be killed,” said Symonicus. “And Eris with him.” The general looked to his brother.

Negamemnon exhaled a long sigh, nostrils flared as he made his decision. “You must speak to Zeus.” Pol nodded. Jaered moved around the king to take Pol’s face in his hands and kiss his forehead, then turned to Daryl and did the same. “You two must eat and rest.”

“Agreed,” added Daleon. “With your permission, your majesty.” It was more of a formality than a question. The king nodded his consent, and the First Minister moved in to guide the prince back to the bed. “Captain?” Daryl stepped forward. Daleon eased Daryl down to sit next to Pol.

“Two drops for you,” Daleon prescribed, tilting Daryl’s head back. Jaered mimed for him to open his mouth; Daryl complied. Two drops of the liquid hit his tongue. On swallowing, his fatigue began to wash away. Sore muscles and the aching pressure behind his eyes was gone within the next minute. The powder burns on his right index finger wiped away like dust.

“You must drink it all, my prince,” Daleon commanded, obviously pleased that for once the young royal offered no defiance as he drank the remainder of the vial. In seconds, Pol was whole and restored.

After much doting, the men left the couple to be alone together and refresh themselves before dinner. Servants arrived to help them bathe, but Pol dismissed them, sweeping Daryl up, kissing him deeply, and removing his flight uniform. With a practiced hand, Daryl released Pol from his armor, smiling and laughing as they made their way together to the bathing pool, the luminous water cleansing their bodies and spirits. No words were spoken. Pulling Pol up behind himself, Daryl reached for the familiar tray of oils one of the servants had left for them at the edge of the pool. Slicking up his palm, Daryl leaned over the side of the pool, reaching back to lubricate his prince’s huge phallus. Pol sighed heavily and kissed the scarred flesh of his brave, strapping soldier before entering Daryl’s warmth. The first time was tender, and gentle, taking turns giving and receiving immense pleasure; Pol finally let him come, fucking him in mid-air above the bed, and he sucked Pol to completion in deepest love and gratitude. The second time, Daryl climaxed inside of Pol just after his beautiful prince released over and over upon Daryl’s chest and stomach.

A servant stepped in quietly to announce that dinner was prepared, and the pair slipped into the tub once again to wash away their sweat and come. Servants reappeared to assist them into their clothing, particularly the armor, pteryges, and sandals that had been made especially for the handsome major.

Halfway to the banquet hall, Daryl realized he had left his cloak. He assured Pol he would return immediately, and ran back to his love’s rooms. When he entered, he stop immediately; a handsome, well-built man, naked but for the long warrior’s cloak of shocking white pinned at the shoulder stood staring out of the open doors to the balcony. Before Daryl could ask his identity, the man turned to face him. He was tall and dark of hair, with full beard and misty blue-green eyes, the color of heaven—the color of Pol’s.

“You love my son,” said the man. It was not a question.

“I do,” answered Daryl, recognition spilling over and grabbing his guts. He spoke his words straight from the heart, knowing anything less would be impossible. Daryl swallowed hard before he spoke again. “I love him more than anything or anyone. I’ve never felt this way before.” He meant each word with every fiber of his being. “I’d _die_ for Pol. He’s the one and only, the light of my whole world. I don’t know what he sees in me: I’m just a backwoods hillbilly. Came from nothing, don’t claim to be more’n I am. I’m a soldier and a spy in what I believe to be a good cause. Pol makes me want to be a better man, and I want to make him happy until the end of time.” 

Out of nowhere, the handsome pilot noticed that there were other men in the room now, surrounding him completely. Pol’s Olympian family drew closer to Daryl, and the major tuned to see them, recognizing each without introduction: Apollo, clad in gleaming gold cuirass with a fine bow slung on his back; Hermes, floating in air, a pair of winged sandals supporting him and moving him in rapid motion here, there, and back like a hummingbird; Dionysus, his lips stained with wine—and what Daryl thought might be blood—as he leaned on his thyrsus, smiled lasciviously, and winked in a way that made Daryl blush scarlet; Ares, standing tall and proud, looking resplendent and lethal in dark armor, and carrying a sword Daryl immediately recognized as Andronium, his deep brown eyes burning with an inner fire; Lord Poseidon’s long, braided hair was wet and streaked with the colors of frozen water, and what little he wore was fashioned of netting and kelp, a circlet of pearls and gold around his forehead; Lord Hades long locks fell past his knees, straight as a plank and streaked through with veins of gold, silver, shale, copper, and iron, a circlet of precious jewels from the fiery depths of the earth glinting softly on his brow, and the edges of his robe singed and smoldering.

“Then there is yet hope,” the King of Olympus stated, “for my son loves you without measure, and he will do so until the stars burn and fade away from the heavens. I give you my blessing, Major Daryl Dixon.” Each of Pol’s family gave his consent and well wishes. Daryl’s chest swelled unconsciously at the confirmations and his heart began to race.

The next thing he knew, the door opened, and Daryl realized Pol was calling his name. He was standing alone in the bed chamber. Turning back to the most divine man in the universe, Daryl joined his prince and family for dinner, planning the defense of the Gargarean Nation’s greatest trust.


	7. The Brave and the Blessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Knight pulls out all the stops in a daring rescue of the Wonder. Apokolips may never be the same!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter?!! Hell, yeah!!! Comments are fuel! 
> 
> Much love, and happy reading XOXO!!!

Decades later and far, far from home...

Bruce sent a polarized current through the experimental bat suit and watched as the blackening blood fell straight away onto the sandy floor. Zatanna’s magic portal had delivered him directly into the bowels of the training arena, and although he had avoided para-demon patrols, the armored battle hounds were more problematic inside the actual kennel in which the doorway had manifested. He hadn’t wanted to kill the beasts, but given the brutality of life on Apokolips, the choices were often limited, and decisive action was needed. Besides, there were other major decisions Bruce Wayne had made this day.

As he sneaked up and past a sentry post of more than sixty soldiers, Batman drew out a small device from his belt and quickly affixed it to one of the supporting buttresses of the outer wall. The echo-location pulse was subtle, which meant it took longer to map out his route. He had prior scans of Darkseid’s capitol district, but nothing guaranteed that changes hadn’t been dictated since his last incursion. 

In less than ten minutes, he had what he needed and made his way through the cityscape. One of the failings of quasi-omnipotent beings is the lack of fear, leading to an overabundance of pride. That level of arrogance allows for gaps in security that could be exploited, especially by those deemed inferior. He could only think to himself that Darkseid really should have listened to Brainiac. Hopping a supply shuttle, he made his way into the heart of the omniplex. 

An hour later, he had tagged an automated sentry and hacked into its systems. He was particularly careful, including planning to be discovered eventually, and therefore, leaving hard to trace tracks designed to lay the blame on multiple doorsteps: Cadmus, LuthorCorp, Star Labs, Thanagaran military, and the Reach, just to name a few. 

He followed the drone on its route, a nearly six hour journey, before he slipped away to his first target. His work there completed, Batman reacquired the drone and followed it to his second target. This one proved to be slightly more difficult. 

The chamber was sealed with a biometric pass-key. Only Despero or someone higher up could enter the secure vault where the Flame of Py’Tar burned, fueling the nearly unstoppable menace’s powers constantly. The Caped Crusader accessed the molecular alignment device he had brought and targeted the nearby wall section. The tiny device whirred and projected a sensor beam to scan the material. Moments later, it projected a separate, four-point beam, forming a large square on the wall. Batman stepped through the wall as if it were mist. Inside, the room was unadorned except for the raised platform over which the pale red fires flickered and licked toward the high ceiling without any release of smoke nor any need of physical fuel to sustain itself. Around the platform sat hundreds of dazed beings from the latest world Despero had enslaved. The victims wasted away as their mental capacity fed the psychic fire; if one fell, he was discarded and replaced immediately like a dead battery.

The Dark Knight tossed a specialized bat-a-rang to sink into the stone ceiling directly above the fire, then he turned and stepped back through the phase-shifted wall section, retrieving the projector and moving to his final objective. He checked his time; less than an hour remained. 

Wasting no more time, the detective raced to his final destination. Stopping outside the elite residence, he checked his gear once more. It was now or never. He initiated the override sequence and summoned the observation drone. As it flew on its pattern overhead, Batman launched the cable and held fast as he soared up to release the grappling claw and land on the rooftop. 

“WHA—?!!” Kalibak’s voice was cut short by the suspensory field bat-a-rangs that suddenly held him in the chrono-static field. He’d been planning to save Mr Terrific’s invention to use on the Wonder, but Kalibak’s presence had been unexpected.

_They know. Damn._

As quiet as a shadow, Batman slipped down into the dimly lit chamber. The nanite systems in his bat-suit awakened and bent the light around him. The sound of a sword being drawn brought him up short. The chamber was huge, but not scaled for Darkseid. That was a plus. 

“You are the only human capable of penetrating this far into the capitol. Have you come to rescue me?” asked Pol, his voice full of mockery. The beautiful prince stepped from behind the bed, suspended by corded cables from the high ceiling. He wore a slinky loincloth of intricate crafting that left almost nothing beneath to the imagination; it was no doubt composed of a beyond-precious metal from some far-reaching world. Batman noted that Pol still retained the Andronium bracers and greaves, but the cuirass stood in an oubliette on a display form with Pol’s pteryges and circlet.

“Yes,” Batman answered.

“Do you really think you can defeat me and take me by force?” Pol asked. He stepped forward from behind a huge, suspended bed. “You’re going to need more than just you and Kal’El.” A slash of the blade shaved a slice of platinum from the nearby lounging chair so thin that it floated like a feather. “Where is he? If Kal'El is here, that should make Zod’s task all the easier.”

Bruce glared back, unfazed and quiet as a tomb. His lack of response spoke volumes. The prince raised an eyebrow. "You came here _alone_!" The Wonder nearly doubled over as he burst into hateful, disparaging laughter.

“The Furies are aware of your presence,” Pol said. “Surrender now, and my future consort may yet grant you a painless death.” 

“You’re under Despero’s control,” Bruce declared. “The Gargarean prince I know would never succumb to such.” Realization slipped into place. “He threatened someone you care about. That’s why you lowered your defenses.”

Pol scoffed. “Hardly. My lord Darkseid will restore the old gods, and my people will sit at his right hand. He has sworn his undying love and—“

“And presents you with the Earth as a wedding present,” Batman countered. “You’re an immortal trophy he can flaunt and use in order to bend your people to his will, and in the end, he’ll drink away your very existence.”

“I won’t ask again,” said Pol, sighing with annoyance.

“Not happening,” Batman said, shaking his head only once to keep a clear view on the Wonder.

“So be it,” Pol said, and with a mighty kick, the huge lounging chair flew across the room with enough force to crush Bruce ten times over—only it passed through the hologram instead and imbedded itself into the wall. “Clever.” 

“Thank you,” came the mixed chorus as ten different, independent versions of the Caped Crusader now stood in various points in the room. The one thing they had in common were the ultrasonic sound stunners. The area effect weapons would be impossible to deflect. They fired.

Pol dropped his sword momentarily and covered his ears. The glass pitcher of wine shattered on the table behind him. With a mighty shout, the Wonder slammed his bracers together, releasing a torrent of concussive energy. The room was devastated as he turned around, directing the energy flow in a complete circle. The holographic projectors Bruce had planted earlier were demolished. 

On the chandelier above, Batman calculated his next moves. A fair fight would not last long and certainly wouldn't end in his favor. Just as he was about to try the paralytic gas pellet, Pol threw his sword, cutting the chain that held the chandelier. Batman jumped away at a bizarre angle and came to stand on the wall. The gravitic shifter in his suit worked like a charm. He launched the pellet at the Wonder’s feet. 

Pol looked askance. “Very clever.” The pellet exploded. The green gas spread and oxidized in seconds.

Batman’s suit projected a localized breathing field around his nose and mouth. The Dark Knight watched as the vapor cleared. The Wonder was not there. Eyes widening, Bruce jumped to shift gravity points again, but the heel of the Wonder’s boot met him in mid-air, slamming him to the floor and stunning the gyro-field generators. Fortunately, the inertial dampening kept him from having his insides ruptured. 

Pol was on him, snatching him up and flinging him against the wall with an impact meant to kill outright. The protection field burned out, but Bruce was alive. He had to let Pol get closer. His hopes sank when Pol flew up to the ceiling to retrieve the sword. 

“Will you grant me a clean death?” Batman asked quietly. “I’d rather die at your hands.”

The Wonder slowly lowered back to the floor in front of him. “Why?”

Bruce looked up. “Because you’re worth dying for.”

The Wonder stood over him and nodded. “I will grant you this request, Bruce Wayne.”

One of the holographic projectors sputtered and popped. Pol glanced at it, sneered, and then turned back to Bruce and hauled him by the left ankle to lie supine. Pol straddled Bruce and knelt, pinning the man’s arms.

“You did your best,” Pol said. “Even my lord will respect that.” The Wonder took the hilt of the blade in both hands, point down, and leveled between Bruce’s eyes.

Batman mumbled something incoherent, his eyes closed, his lips barely moving.

“What did you say?”

“I said: _Who_ do you love? Remember who you _are_!” Batman commanded. “ _WHO DO YOU LOVE?!!_ ”

From around the Wonder’s left ankle, brilliant golden light bloomed as the lasso flared to life. The mighty demigod raised the sword with both hands and drove the point down toward Batman’s head. And then, an answer came forth, pure, true, and undeniable.

**_“Daryl Dixon.”_ **

“Gotcha,” said Bruce, a squint and a half-smile of triumph breaking across his visible features as the blade stopped a centimeter from his left eye.

“Bruce!” Pol exclaimed within the light of recognition in his eyes. “I—“ 

Batman was sitting up in an instant, using a move he had learned from the man before him. The kiss stifled Prince Pol’s apology. When they broke apart, the pair rested their foreheads together in silence.

“We’re not out of this yet,” said Batman. He looked up into those amazing misty-blue eyes as Pol breathed out and lowered the blade. The two men were suddenly very much aware of their growing erections.

Pol lowered his head. Bruce’s hand joined with his, and Pol lifted it up to kiss the palm. Bruce sat up, maneuvered himself and his handsome prince, and rose to his feet, carrying Pol in his arms over to the remnants of the bed, words, apologies, and regrets abandoned.

\----

Pol, dressed once again in his divine armor, replaced his circlet and added the lasso to his belt. He glanced over at Bruce who had a soft smile on his face as he put his belt back on.

“Keep that other outfit,” Bruce said. Pol looked back at him with a questioning visage. “For Halloween,” the detective clarified as he stood and sauntered over, taking Pol’s hand and placing a kiss in the palm. “And _after_ Halloween.” 

Pol smiled back and huffed a laughed. 

“We need a boom tube home,” declared Batman. “That means a Mother Box. Ideas?”

“The furies,” Pol spat with disdain. Clearly they were not the Furies of his home pantheon, and therefore, not worthy of esteem. “Where they are, Granny Goodness won’t be far behind. We’ll take hers. But first, we need to cripple the operations here.”

Batman gave a crooked, knowing smile and nodded back.

“I’m guessing you’ve been busy,” the Wonder surmised.

Batman shrugged as the pair moved to the roof. “No more so than usual.”

“Will there be a planet left?”

“It’s mathematically possible.” Batman repeated the crooked smile. Pol chuckled a bit, took Bruce in his arms, and soared up. 

Within minutes, alarms blared and para-demon forces streaked through the sky after the pair. Batman transmitted a series of commands through the hacked network. He knew his remaining access would be short-lived, but the immediate results were truly spectacular as the capitol’s defense systems acquired strategic targets and unloaded. Power substations, defense system control centers, communication hubs, transportation junctions, troop barracks, flight hangars, and mass-manufacturing and replication facilities went up in a hail of plasma fire. 

The Wonder swept down over the arena and released Batman, watching the Dark Knight flip down to land safely in the stands before dropping to the cracked pavement of the arena floor. As expected, the Furies made their entrance. Lashina and Stompa advanced from the west while Gilotina and Bernadeth approached from the east. 

“Watch for—“ Pol started saying into the comm link just as the fury burst from the spectators’ box in pursuit of Batman, claws flashing and shredding the stone before her as the maniacal terror, Mad Harriet, bounded on all fours after her prey.

Batman was nowhere to be seen. That didn’t seem to stop her pursuit.

Gilotina struck at Pol with both blades. The Wonder parried six strokes with his bracers before landing a high kick that rocketed his sword-wielding foe into the top of the stands with a devastating crash. Stompa slammed a foot down to ripple the earth with seismic shockwaves, but half a second before, Pol leapt backward in an arc over the huge woman, drew the blade of Aphrodite, and brought it down on the gargantuan immortal’s back leg, severing it clean through at the knee. 

Stompa wailed and crumpled over. Bernadeth smiled cruelly, her unnaturally angular features and advanced, not to attack Pol, but to kill off a rival as she stuck the Fahren-Knife into the open wound and watched Stompa writhe in agony as her immortality burned away. Lashina struck with her electro whips, catching Pol around the waist and unleashing a devastating current, causing Pol to drop his sword and double over. Bernadeth turned back to the newly weakened opponent, her sadistic curiosity peaked. Gilotina stepped forward to take up Pol’s blade and hold it, awaiting Granny’s command before delivering the final stroke.

“Poor, foolish children, always in need of correction and education as to your place in the universe,” Granny gloated from the grand box. “I must thank you for the immense level of joy you brought me at seeing Darkseid’s countenance when I proved to him exactly what kind of ungrateful catamite you are, spurning our lord’s affection for this insolent, insignificant—“

The warmonger’s diatribe ended abruptly as the arena’s isokinetic pulse cannons engaged, first connecting with Mad Harriet and slamming her into Granny with tremendous effect. Both women flew from the grand box. Lashina electrocuted Pol once more before being unceremoniously pulled off her feet and flung at Gilotina. 

“Change of tactic,” groaned Granny Goodness, picking rubble from her face as she got up from the cracked pavement. “Kill the bat!” she screeched, pointing up to where Batman stood at the broken edge of the grand box. 

As the furies scrambled to recover, the Wonder struck out, disarmed Gilotina with a nerve-strike to the elbow, and reclaimed his sword, cutting through Lashina’s whip and soaring up to Batman’s side. Instinct and reflexes took over as his movements deflected the incoming pulse volleys from para-demons now massing above the arena. The number of foes was increasing. 

“Any ideas?” Pol asked.

“One, and they’re not going to like it,” Bruce replied solemnly, opening one of the Kryptonian steel tube containers on his belt. A shining point of light streaked forth, leaving a diminishing trail of yellow light behind. The Qwardian power ring circled the duo twice before coming to a halt and hovering before Batman.

 _**Bruce Wayne, you have the capacity to instill great fear.**_ The ring resized itself and slipped on the middle finger of Batman’s right, gloved hand. _**You have been chosen from among trillions of sentient being to bring fear to Sector 2814. You will now experience cognitive re-alignment—Warning: Rejection factors detected. Will overriding fear. Target rejected in favor of—**_

The ring flared bright, and a countless flurry of yellow, hard-light bat-a-rangs ripped through the sky, shredding the para-demon legion. The shocktroops dropped from the sky, raining down on Granny and the Furies, exploding on upon the new gods and the ground, and burying the agents of Apokolips. As they dug themselves out, faint yellow light began to tendril toward the ring that shone like the terrible dawn on Batman’s finger. His voice was callous as it was picked up by the grand box receivers and magnified throughout the district. The cold words chilled even Pol’s blood. 

“Your fears come true this very night,  
Relentless doom you cannot fight,  
Left paralyzed in crippling fright,  
Now cower under terror’s light.”

_**Prior green ring usage detected. Malfunction override—Corp to host control . . . disabled. Will, fear, and love induction capacities exceeding design and task parameters! No--No! P-please!!! Do not destroy this instrument! We swear obedience!**_

A circular, stylized emblem emanated and hovered an inch away from Batman’s chest, an amalgamation of his bat symbol and the fear glyph of the Sinestro Corp, masters of fear in the multi-verse.  
The fear-powered ring glowed so brightly that Batman’s hand was no longer visible but swathed in a globe of pure, yellow light. 

“Bruce!” Pol said, clearly worried as he watched the irises of Batman’s eyes brighten and glow with yellow light. 

"I've got this," Batman said quietly.

The Furies squirmed and fought their way free from the rubble, the craziest making her way toward the Wonder and Batman, but this time, even Mad Harriet had a moment of clarity, pausing to assess the potential for her own destruction or permanent maiming. Losing herself again in the delight of annihilation, the tattooed fiend leapt up to strike at the detective, her powered claws slashing out with enough force to pierce through the yellow nimbus protecting the detective. 

Bruce grunted in pain as he flew back from Mad Harriet, the nanite bat-suit immediately generating a coagulant. The assassin cackled and screeched as she dove and spun from the yellow laser than swept toward her from Batman’s ring, but when the golden cord snapped tight around her neck, the beast found herself yanked back off her feet, the back of her head slamming lethally into the edge of Pol’s shield. Harriet’s insane giggles cut off once and for all.

“Kill them!!!” bellowed Granny Goodness. 

Bernadeth raced up the side stairs to the grand box, Fahren-Knife blazing nearly as hot as the hate in her eyes. Lashina was right behind her; Gilotina was nowhere to be seen, but she was coming for sure. As Bernadeth crested the stairs she lunged for the Wonder but fell for a feint. The Fahren-Knife fell from her severed hand and clattered to the floor, igniting it instantly. 

A straight-jacket of yellow light enveloped the fury and reformed itself into a launching missile. Bernadeth’s cries of protest were drown out as the rocket streaked away and vanished directly in the fiery bloom of the nearest hellspore. Lashina’s weapon had regenerated, and the villainess lashed out at the Wonder, cracking in a blur of sharp, electro-plasma strikes. Sight couldn’t keep up with the Wonder’s movements, the dance countering and gaining strategic purchase over Lashina, pressing her back in order to be able to use her weapon to its best advantage. 

“Now!” cried Bruce. The Wonder’s spear manifested in hand, and he threw it forth to strike through Lashina and into Gilotina as the yellow energy bolt of a hard-light crossbow construct blew through the skulls of both furies from behind, stopping only when it shattered against Pol’s bracer.

“ _NO_!!!” Granny wailed as her last furies fell. “Mighty Darkseid will punish us all for this transgression!” 

“You mean _failure_ ,” Bruce quipped. Granny actually shivered as the consequences of Darkseid’s imminent displeasure ran through her mind. “Scared now?” The ring pulsing in time to Granny’s quickening heartbeat, bathing the arena in flickering, jaundiced light and darkening the shadows into foreboding pools of the unknown.

“Not for long, vermin!” Granny spat, activating the Mother Box and opening a boom tube. “You!” she screamed through the aperture. “Get to your task before I report your failure to Darkseid.” The hulking, violet-skinned male stepped through the spatial portal. The sharp teeth gnashed together at seeing Pol free from his control.

“How?” he chuffed at Granny, clearly confused as to why the Gargarean prince was free of his mental manipulation. 

“Your inadequacy and incompetence!” Granny sniped. “Subdue the prince! Make him kill the—“ 

Despero watched Granny’s form fall. Her head, however, was locked in a look of utter incredulity as the Wonder held it up before Despero.

“You’re next,” Pol said, his words full of finality.

“Allow me,” said Bruce, stepping in front of Pol and glaring at Despero.

The giant’s third eye opened in the ceter of his forehead, staring down at Batman. The light coming from it glowed a terrible orange and . . . Despero knelt and began to drool. Several convulsions overtook the beast, and blood began to run from each of his three eyes and nose. Back in the mind chamber, the bat-a-rang deployed a piercing whine that snapped the captives out of their stupor. With no source of psychic energy, the Flame turned inward. Psychic fire—the frantic, starving emanation of the Flame of Py’Tar—began to burn away Despero physically until nothing remained.

Pol tossed Granny’s head into the refuse below and picked up her Mother Box. “What did you do? The prince asked Batman.

“Only what he meant to do to me,” Batman answered. He met the Wonder’s sidelong look. “While rummaging through LutherCorp’s air-gapped facility in New Orleans, I found the specs for a device that reflects telepathic powers back on the user—in a file labeled: Grodd.”

Pol huffed a small laugh of amusement. “Let’s go help Kal.” The Mother Box whirred and rearranged itself before opening the boom tube wormhole back to Earth.

As they turned to step through, the shadow fell over them. The portal collapsed in as the device was dropped, and Pol was barely able to counter the eighteen multi-vector omega beam blasts. 

“You’re going to let us go, Darkseid,” Batman stated. “And you’re going to leave Earth alone and break your alliance with Eris.”

 **“Why would I do that?”** the stone-faced ruler of the new gods inquired coldly as he floated down to land before Pol and Bruce.

Given a final, internal command, the yellow power ring streaked from Batman’s finger, becoming brighter than a magnesium flare as it hit the structure housing Brainiac’s base of operations on Apokolips. Darkseid looked over and watched the destruction impassively, a setback for which Brainiac would have to be punished for allowing his workspace to be taken so frivolously.

“Because you know me,” Batman. “Because I’m not here to play; I’m here to win.” Darkseid turned back to face the detective. The Dark Knight looked the Lord of Apokolips eye-to-eye; neither flinched as Radion particle bombs detonated throughout the cityscape, including one Bruce had just slipped onto the back of Darkseid’s collar. As the explosion cleared, Bruce found Pol standing with feet planted in a protective stance. The Wonder had placed himself between Batman and the explosion. Down two levels below, Darkseid’s remains lay still and covered in a fine, powdery layer of the glowing, reddish-pink, god-killing substance. The picture before him reminded Bruce of a time not long before when Pol’s bracers were crossed to form a protective barrier against a blast the day they first met, the day when the prince had saved him from Doomsday while Bruce had been stuck in the pilot’s seat of his downed bat-jet.

Pol stood and turned to face Bruce, his divine armor resonating with power from the omega release. Bruce looked back; he knew Pol wasn’t judging his actions, but he felt that he owed his handsome prince an explanation. 

“Because here, it’s not about getting by,” Bruce explained. “It’s about getting it all.”

Pol stepped over, took the detective’s face in his hands, and kissed Bruce on the mouth before resting their heads together for a moment longer, loving the feeling he had missed as Bruce slid his hands around the prince’s waist, just holding on to each other. 

“They need us,” Pol said. 

Bruce nodded, then kissed Pol again deeply. 

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Pol said seriously. “Bruce, you took a terrible risk coming here.”

“It’s what you do,” Bruce declared, “when you love someone.”

Pol looked at him, eyes searching for something.

“What is it?” asked Bruce.

“A promise,” Pol said. 

Bruce tilted his head, working to piece together what his divine prince meant by that. He filed it away for the time being as Pol picked up the Mother Box and opened a boom tube to Earth once more. 

Before they stepped through, Pol stopped and placed a hand on Bruce’s chest where only the dark, metal bat emblem now rested. “Tell me you have Kryptonite.”

He got back a crooked smile.

\----

“Sub-Commander Faora, respond!”

Once the voice of military might on the world of Krypton, General Zod grew annoyed. He was not accustomed to waiting for replies to his direct inquiries. Finally his devoted protégé’s comm channel opened.

“Sub-Commander Faora has been reassigned,” said Batman.

“As for you,” said the Wonder, lowering from the clouds, the Gauntlets of Atlas crossed before him. “General Dru-Zod. Your master has been defeated, your forces routed and returned to serve their penance. I respectfully call upon you to rejoin your subordinates and to accept your confinement in the Phantom Zone.”

“Or you’ll what? Kill me?” scoffed Zod. “Oblivion is preferable.” Zod’s heat vision streamed at the Wonder, flaring bright as the sun. When he relented, Zod was astonished to find the Wonder looking over his crossed gauntlets.

“There are places far worse than the Zone, General,” Pol said softly. 

“Backwards superstition!” Zod raced forward faster than lightning, raining blows to shake the earth beneath their feet for miles. 

The Wonder countered each. As Zod’s anger grew. Striking the ground at the wonder’s feet, Pol flew up into the air only to be struck again by Zod’s startling speed and titanic strength. Pol hit the ground like a meteor, devastating the area and creating a crater over one hundred meters wide. Zod swept up to break the sound barrier several times over and reach the outer atmosphere before turning to view back at Pol’s shocked face. The Wonder rose and tossed aside his shield and sword, taking the golden lasso between his fingers.

Zod dove at him. Pol could hear the scornful projection of his enemy’s outrage. “A rope?!!” 

Pol wrapped the cord around his bracers and set his footing. “I am Apollonius, Son of Zeus, Son of Negamemnon, Son of Jaered, Prince of the Gargarean Nation. Fathers, Uncles, Brothers, Mothers, I beseech you: give me might and skill,” he prayed quietly. The air screamed against the friction of Zod’s incoming speed. Pol streaked up into the air, twisted, and as if moving to deflect fire, held the cord out as it flared into brilliance, arcing around and planting his knee between Zod’s shoulder blades. Pain followed, quick and sharp.

Zod tried to spin and realized he could not. The general’s world went dark, and the primitive horrors of Tartarus became all too real.

\----

He’d given Steppenwolf, dreaded harbinger of Darkseid, a fair chance to return to Apokolips as the marauder stood staring out over the ruins of central Metropolis. The butcher squinted and scoffed, claiming his subordinate would deliver Pol’s head back to him.

The warlord’s derisive laughter had cut short the moment Pol pulled up the golden cord, revealing Zod’s dangling head in a double loop of the lasso as the Wonder began whirling it like a massive, gruesome meteor ball, the look of complete shock still frozen on the Kyrptonian general’s face. Darkseid’s chief enforcer was no longer laughing. 

Steppenwolf had wasted no more time, electro-axe flashing down again and again to cleave the Wonder in two. The prince deflected and countered faster than thought. Pol counter-punched, hammering the warlord back. The Wonder slung and yanked the glowing rope; it’s now-weighted end struck Steppenwolf like an Olympian wrecking ball, breaking the electro-axe and cracking the battle armor as the warrior tumbled through the remnants two buildings. Taking advantage of the stunned warlord, the Wonder used the free end of the lasso, looping it round and round Steppenwolf. His quarry encircled, the Wonder braced his feet and pulled with all his might, the Gauntlets of Atlas magnifying his already unearthly strength. The mighty terror’s arms were pinned, and Steppenwolf cried out in unexpected pain when his breastplate caved in. 

As he screamed, mouth open wide, Batman’s plan went into full effect. The Dark Knight swung down and fired the tiny pellet into the New God’s open maw. The spore instantly opened, and the Black Mercy went to its task.

\----

 

Aboard the Watchtower, Kal’El and company hovered in red radiance bands to inhibit their solar-fueled powers. The Collector of Worlds walked over the unconscious body of Mr Terrific and spoke in a cold, unfeeling voice. 

“Son of Jor’El,” intoned Brainiac. “Your infantile ploy to send an annoying bounty hunter has failed. I derive what may be deemed pleasure in informing you that Lobo is busy fighting the clones of himself. Pathetic—“

The transport pad illuminated and Batman materialized.

“You have a hidden protocol,” Brainiac extrapolated. “I will identify and purge it soon enough. As for you…”

Bruce shrugged and stepped forward. “I thought I was insignificant?”

Brainiac stared soullessly. “Darkseid is arrogant.”

“ _Was_.” 

“So confident that you have destroyed such a being,” Brainiac droned. “It is unwarranted.” The internal weapon drones activated and floated toward the Dark Knight.

“Is it?” Batman countered. “

“As I calculated, you are the cause of the disruption to my hub on Apokolips,” Brainiac informed. “Now, you will be removed from the equation. Your presence on Apokolips was unexpected, but you have returned, mostly likely having rescued—“ Brainiac suddenly looked around as he concluded, ”Re-assessment: Where is the Won--?”

The lightning-sheathed spear breached the cyborg’s forehead plating as he was lifted from the floor, crackling with divine fury as he burned away with no escape. Bruce’s half-smile met Pol’s as the prince carried the form to the matter converter and disintegrated the remains. 

Once Kal and the others were free, and Mr Terrific and Martian Manhunter had been revived, Superman, his team, and the available Green Lantern Corp prepared to engage in a coordinated effort to repel the remainder of Apokolips’ forces on earth. One of the teams relayed a powerful, blazing signal fire in the temple of Hades outside of Sparta. Pol’s breath caught. The Infernal Door had been opened. Wasting no more time, Pol and Bruce wished their allies luck as they took a javelin jet to Thessalios to stop Eris’ assault on the Underworld. 

As the jet streaked toward the Atlantic, Bruce released his safety restraints, leaned over and gave Pol a kiss, firm and fervent. Pol knew why.


End file.
